I keep a picture of myself at 11 close to me at all times as a reminder of who I was before bitterness and cruelness got to me. I remember that day well. My mom took me to a museum and then we had a glass of cold grape juice on the terrace at a local place. Spring was slowly turning too hot but I was still wearing a jean jacket. I felt fat and I wanted to hide my body. It is shocking to me how early it started for me but I know my personality was still that of a kind and hopeful human being. I keep this picture close because that little face was in pain and it didn't need to be. Most likely the way it is now, even if I can't believe it yet. I am in pain and I don't need to be. I refuse to believe it's necessary to learn certain lessons or experience a kind of heartache that can kill your spirit in order to be better. Suffering, some may say, is a blessing. Bullshit. I was able to feel beauty before. At 11, I knew things that I ignore now. I was more capable of living than I am now. Tell me that's progress. If only I could go back to being that kind and hopeful person I could give something positive back to society. There's no practical point in starting as a pure soul then ingesting all this poison to only try to go back to that purer soul. It's probably what happens, it's the human way some of us deal with the wound, but it serves no purpose. You obviously realise this when it's too late and you need to go back.
I've been listening to The Bends by Radiohead so much lately. Such a perfect album. I don't know what that means in the context of things.
Going back here is pointless. Writing is necessary.
I'm learning to play guitar. I figured that if I was going to have to be inside for years and waste the last years of my decrepit youth hiding from premature sickness and death, I might as well do what I've always wanted to do.
There is so much I need to write but my eyes are killing me from staring at this screen.