And once again I find myself explaining the same things over and over, because I cannot for the life of me understand myself. Where half my thoughts are heading, the feelings I so desperately try to ignore. I drown them in starvation, purge them out. What's left of me? I'm a walking, shuffling disaster and I think I both hate it and love it. I love wasting away, I love becoming less and less of me. But I hate the withering of my mind, how the thoughts detach and I can't focus on them for more than a few seconds.
It's only when I write that I can almost stay in one piece throughout a text. These bodies of text make up for all that I'm lacking. And I lack so much these days. I feel as though I'm losing myself, a little more with each passing day. But I still have my peaks, it's just that I don't notice them as much and they don't last very long. It's like trying to catch a butterfly without hurting the little thing. My peaks seem so fragile, like soap bubbles, and I can only watch as they pass me by.
Just trying to find the not ill part of me somewhere deep inside my brain is a pretty hard challenge. Cause I just whenever start spewing darkness and chaos and on that way it is. But even on my peaks I don't want to live. I can enjoy the moment with a bitter sweet smile and appreciate it but also appreciate that it can never last. I need my darkness and I cling to it, afraid that if I let go if would abandon me. Silly perhaps, as I not that long ago did everything I could for it to leave me and it never once took a break.
I watch my life as if I'm watching a good but very sad movie for the very last time. I let things happen, but still torture myself over things I do and say. Just trying to let it be, it will be over soon. I value my life very highly, still I don't want to live it. I would want to give it to someone else if it hadn't been so painful. My life is something you shouldn't wish upon anyone.
But I wish it upon myself. I do value it, even though I also hate it. I don't wish for most things to have been different, I really did the best I could with what I was given, I really do believe in that. Now it feels like all the alternatives are out of the picture and I just have this one last path to walk. I'm not afraid, it feels right. I have lived almost 27 years and I will soon have reached my perfect age. Knew it was gonna be ironical, things mostly are.
And that makes me smile. Whatever happens to me when I die, I think I will be ready for it. I will never stop hoping for the best, but things will be as they will be, and there's nothing I can change about that. I'm letting go, slowly, bit by bit, of myself and the world I could never call my home. It's been an unpleasant journey but a journey nonetheless, and all journeys have to end.
Still I have my months left, still I have things left unfinished. I'll finish them in time, I'm sure I will. There's not much holding me back, not much keeping me here. I just want, if possible, for the people I love and or care about to be able to move on. I know some will while others won't, no matter what I do. It's really been one heck of a life and I'll finish my autobiography soon. Just need to fill out the last pages and change all the names to pseudonyms. Soon it will be done, that too.
I don't really care if it comes out to the world after I die or not, or if it will just collect dust in my computer, so to say. But I think at least one person will read it and that would be enough for me. I don't know who and it doesn't matter.
I'm falling quickly now and I don't even know if I'll make it to the spring, but I would like to, see my favourite season just one more time. I could take it easier, but then I actually really can't. I can't eat and I don't want any help. That time has passed. Either I'll start eating more if I think it's going too fast or I won't and be fine with that. We'll see.
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