Tag Archives: memories

this though.

Thank you for this comment:

“It’s taken years to put the nesting dolls of this breakup back together. And there are times when you’ve take it back apart to look at all the pieces again. But at some point you get faster with reassembling it. And at some point it sits on the shelf longer and longer before you pull it down again.
Here’s hoping you can soon move it to the top shelf where you can glance at it from afar to make room for other things closer to you. Like a momento from a trip taken long ago, where memories are there in the surrounding space of other souvenirs of adventures long ago.
Here’s hoping the picture frames on your shelf are soon filled with beautiful images of your current life: photos of those who love you, those you love, and times you cherish.”

Day by day by day by day.

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no more memories.

Forgot my real journal.

Going up on the lamotrigine. Really pumped about it, only not that pumped b/c I’m super down.

Super.

I hate this time of year. Obviously I think we’ve caught on to that. Waiting on the upswing.

All of my best memories are with you.

^^^^Statements that are false. But you know when you’re sad and lonely how you can only think of one thing? That’s where I am.

“I want you to see it before anyone else.”

Why? Because you love me? Because you know I’ll be upset otherwise? Because old time’s sake?

I want to see it before anyone else. But I want it to be for me.

It’s not for me, is it?

I always hear the lyrics first. You? What do you hear?

I haven’t been hungry or full in a month or more. I eat when I shake, or when I realize I took meds without food and feel nauseated. It’s like my stomach went numb.

I talk about money too much. Fixated.

Selfish.

Things are terrible in the world and I am selfish.

All of my best memories are done. I feel like I haven’t made a memory in a year. Isn’t that weird? All of the memorable things I’ve done this year and I feel like I can’t remember them.

I barely remember anything. Cannot get up for work. Cannot work. But I love my work. But I’m not doing any work.

I need new music. The world needs new music. I cannot write music.

Cannot cannot cannot.

I think of things that I cannot do all day every day. Because I could have done them, if I’d learned or worked hard.

Even the things I could do, I can’t do anymore.

Who am I, if not a runner, or a dancer, or an actor, or a dog trainer, or the one who dresses nice and always look good for work?

Who even am I.

Sorry for this irrelevant stream of consciousness.

Someone write it in a song, because I cannot.

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I’m sure days have gone by when I didn’t think of you.

I just don’t remember any of them.

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