A slightly ridiculous paranoia

Can't you tell?

I never write anymore. This empty blog is proof. But it's not just the blog; its the little black commonplace book, the idea scrawls that used to float around my room, the big red journal of everything. I no longer get the clean air of wishful thinking and enlightenment residue. The routine was: open to a random page, write something of the nothings, close book, find that paragraph again during a subway ride and cry a little bit.I used to be able to produce these tiny scribbles at wee hours snuggled in my duvet. That was bliss and comfort. Nothing else runs through my mind besides what's for homework. Nothing else. I no longer think, I no longer write, I no longer feel that I am.

Letting go

It'd be a shame/crime/splendor/sin/explosion/riot/white flag/hassle to just get drunk everyday for a week to tell people how much I need them again.

Tonight won't make a difference

When did I end up so on my own? Alone is how its been for so long. On my own is another type of solo state. I used to allow everyone to see me. Vulnerable and free spirited. My stories are jumbled because I either don't trust anyone with them or I'm just not used to talking to anyone anymore. What would it matter to anyone? Why can't I be with anyone? I've been floating in this bubble of myself for so long. Everyone ran away without me. At least they seem happier now. They are happier now.

We all know what that makes me.