Why do we have this self-imposed idea that throughout our lives we are meant to maintain a perfect, crisp version of ourselves? Like untouched snow, or fresh school shoes that we don’t want to scratch.
It started grating on me so much, that I felt irrationally angry whenever I had my lamp on and realised that the Feeble Light was still on, doing his best to grace me with his presence. Yet, he was so dim I did not idea he was there.
I get stuck in my head a lot. I think and think and think, and sometimes the words I want to say just dry up in my mouth, and I keep everything inside. It’s not that I actively choose to not talk about it anymore, I just can’t express myself.