I feel, again, for the hundredth time in my life, like my life is a text scrolling past me faster than I can read it, and it falls to me to reach out and grasp at it, try to slow it down and at least make sense of the moment before it's gone. But the moments fly by and I gain no understanding, just a fleeting sensation that I've missed something important and it will never come back. I feel the weight and guilt of having taken even a moment of my time here for granted, I feel like I deserve bruises for how much I've wasted wallowing in loneliness, helplessness, self-pity when I was down. I can't believe I let myself get away with it. Once again I've come to that point where my stay has been whittled down, the days have dwindled to few and I can count them on my fingers but before I can close my palm on them another chalk line appears on the wall and another day has disappeared. I am sad, because I don't want to go home. I am sad, because part of me thinks this is home. I am sad, because it is a shame that we have to live, but it's a tragedy that we get to live only once. If I had two lives, I'd spend one of them here.
I am scared, because I don't know if I'll ever come back.
It seems like I discovered all of the books, films, songs, and pictures that resonate with me early in life, all at once; I turn back to the same pages and notes to describe my state of mind, even though I've heard hundreds of songs since then and read more books than I remember. Maybe I've grown harder, the way babys' skulls are in pieces at first but stitch together with time; maybe I'm not growing anymore.
My life is so incredible and I miss it already.
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