This isn’t really about anything. I kind of wrote it in a “fevered state.” I’m not sure it is about anything, let alone if it means anything. Well, decipher it if you must, but only at your own peril.

I feel like crying. Good music makes me cry, but it isn’t because of good music that I feel like crying.

I want to live in pages. I want to write in blood and live forever through words. All the sunsets you’ll never see, all the stars you’ll never count, all the woods you’ll never get lost in, I’ll preserve them in pages. One day when I’m gone, someone will shake them like a snowglobe and magic will happen. And when the magic is gone, they’ll give me to their children, and their children their children, and so on. I will never die.

I have 300 pages to read for tomorrow but I don’t really feel like reading words I didn’t write. I have always dreamed of writing, for myself, for the world, but it seems all I can do is read. I am sick of myself.

I am sick to my stomach that I hope I throw up words. Maybe it won’t be that bad. Maybe I can scoop them up with my hands, place them on our coffee table and put together something beautiful. Something bright. And hopeful. Everything I never am. Plus they tell me after you throw up you feel like a million bucks. I could use a million bucks right now.

I sit in the corner and hug my knees. I’m frightened of my own monsters. Dreams that have turned into demons grow legs and fur and curl on my feet to keep me warm. False comfort. I am angry but I don’t want to be ungrateful. Thank you, don’t call us, we’ll call you. My life’s one really long interview and I don’t even know what it’s for.

My heart is a marching band intro drum line and I hate it. Be still, my beating heart. You are the reason I feel like exploding. No, imploding. I’m gonna be a supernova and it’ll be all your fault. And when it’s done, we’ll sit and have cookies then cry over spilled milk. Then we’ll suck all of the light and life out of everything around us because that’s what we do best.

I see a girl with mascara tracks on her face. She’s been crying too. I run to her and shatter glass. I am confused, I am hallucinating, I want to see some pretty colors. That girl, she was so sad and so pretty. Someone hold her, please. Someone hold me, please.

Happy people don’t write novels. Happy people don’t have time to live two lives. One outside and one inside. One they have no control over and one they orchestrate to make Haydn and Debussy and Copland live again. It’s such beautiful music but no one else can hear it.

I feel like crying. Good music makes me cry and it’s because of good music that I feel like crying.

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