existential mess (vol. ii)

for the first time in a long time, I looked at the photos on my wall.

anyone who knows my room at all (which is the majority of my friends, because I showcase this place like it’s a temple) knows of the collection of polaroids sitting just above my desk

fun fact: the first of those polaroids have been there for almost a year, untouched since I left them on there.

upon glancing through snapshots of faded memories on melancholic print, I discovered that subconsciously I hadn’t noticed a photo of complete darkness sitting around the other pictures.
this was not intentional.
which means I subconsciously glossed over that photo for almost a year before noticing it was a dud.

or, the worse option,

I put that photo there for a reason and I cannot for the life of me remember why it’s there.

 

regardless, obviously looking back on memories will generally trigger a bittersweet reaction, but despite knowing that I couldn’t help but find myself getting emotional over the images poorly blu-tacked to my wall.

there are people on there that I consider family.

then, there are people on there that I considered family for a long time.

seeing them side-by-side, divided only by the white borders of the photographs, made me vividly aware of how my social life has evolved over time.

 

dear reader, I consider you family.

anyone who takes time out of their own existence to read the shit I spill onto a page is automatically closer to me than the majority of humanity ever will be.

 

do i isolate myself intentionally?

absolutely.

hey, man, you clicked onto a post titled “existential mess (vol. ii), if you weren’t expecting rapid and jarring shifts in existential dread then frankly
you should’ve known better.

 

i think there are times where i rely entirely on the people around me, and there are times where the last thing i want to see is another human face.

in those darker times, i do intentionally isolate myself

ergo, there’s a good chance i have, at some point, isolated you.

for that, i am sorry, dear reader.

 

it’s increasingly obvious to not only me, but probably you that I have run out of things to say.

the periods of time between these therapy session-esque writings grow consistently, and I fear for a future where I don’t have a void to throw my emotions into for need of validation.

but at the same time, I think I’m a little burned out in a lot of ways.

a million words could not find accurately describe the regret that I have for such a scenario to even occur.

i love writing

i love people reading my writing

so why the fuck cant i fucking write cohesively

 

 

i’m not happy again, that’s usually the problem.

i think i’m just in such an intense state of pure gray where I just don’t care any more

about anything, let alone this stupid website

 

i mean, what’s this going to achieve really? a backlog of all my shitty teen angst tantrums, fantastic.

i’ll have this instead of a photo album to look back on.

 

 

maybe thats why i kept them up there.

to look back on.

to realise that life as an irresponsible teenage cringebag doesn’t last forever.

to capture moments that my eyes will never bear witness to again.

 

wow

i wrote 580 words to explain what the fuck photos are for

ごめんなさい

i love you.

see you in like 3 months