it’s been a year. 

life has gotten exponentially better since then, but i’m still so unhappy. it frustrates me that i’m so unhappy when everything points to things being alright.

i think i’ve come to terms with the fact that i’ll never be happy. i think it’s my fault that i’ll never be happy. the moment i feel content, i’ll think that it’s good, but i could do more. it’s good, but it can be better. i’ll raise that bar higher, and higher, until it becomes so terribly unreachable, not even a rocket that could launch itself to saturn would be enough to get there.

i could probably examine childhood trauma, and the way i was raised for an explanation, but i don’t think it’s that simple. 

well, maybe it is, but it doesn’t feel that way.

sounds silly, but i feel like i interact with the world in a very different way, and i never have the words to explain it. 

i don’t have the words to describe the period of my life when i wrote 100k words in a single month of a story that received such grand reception. i don’t have the words to describe what it’s like to feel the sunrise on your skin. i don’t have the words to explain why i cry when i listen to certain music. 

i will never be able to share the way i see, feel, and experience the world with anyone. there are so many words, so many different languages, and none of them fit; none, satisfactory.

and when there are no words, how am i supposed to communicate? how can i get anyone to understand?

it’s so frustrating, and nobody listens. not necessarily because they don’t want to, or don’t care, but because i can’t explain it.

i feel trapped within myself. toes nailed to the earth, but a nebula behind the eyes. floating with nowhere to go, like i’m in a glass box with no gravity. i can see the stars, but i can’t touch them. i can know a tree, but never communicate with it. 

just a lot of big, overwhelming thoughts and feelings wasted on someone so small and insignificant. i could die tomorrow, and time wouldn’t stop. the world will keep going, and going, and going until it decides it won’t anymore.

hey, have you ever thought about what your last day would look like? 

the ideal would be something romantic and sublime, but really, it might just be walking the dog. going to the grocery store. cleaning up litter on the sidewalk. clocking out for the day. turning in your homework. hanging up a new windchime. getting your oil changed. folding your laundry. filing your taxes. 

what happens on the last day—collectively? where does all that activity go? does it all disintegrate? scorch marks on concrete?

it feels so perpetual, but life really is so fragile. we built ourselves up on concepts, created a conversion for time, and i still can’t figure out what happiness is supposed to feel like.

it kills me that i may never know, and maybe, i’m not allowed to.