circe

His savior complex. Mixing that up with his feelings of affection. That's gonna be how it rolls, right? I think I'll see myself there.

Do people only favor his meticulous mask? Is he incredibly hideous inside? I want to know. I want to see myself.

Does he struggle to care for people genuinely? I want to know. I want to see myself.

Why is he the way that he is?

Is he truly selfish? Or does he believe he's doing it all for the greater good? Does he truly want to believe he's doing the right thing? Or does he only care about what he gains?

Who is he? I want to know. Because maybe I can see myself. I'd like to see myself.

He packed his bags to chase his own dreams.

“Why did he leave them?” I wonder.

I try not to project. But I think about it anyway. About my desire to leave and pack my bags. To not be in the same vicinity as them. That's changed recently, thankfully. They haven't made me miserable like they often did in the past. I wonder who's changed. Maybe all of us.

Im in a mood to write flowery prose. Like the rest I've done here.

What to write about? I'm not exactly ruminating about something. I don't have any thoughts mulling about the back of my mind.

But I'm in that mood. What to write?

Oh, my heart beat a little harder thinking about the character that isn't real. He means a lot to me. He reminds me a lot of myself. Maybe I'll write about what he means to me.

But where to start? This man has a lot to him. A lot to him that I resonate with. I look at his pretty drawn facade and I recognize myself in everything he signifies.

I made a Pinterest board with art and photos I associated with major themes of my life. That is, what I feel the most about regarding myself and my experiences with it in general.

He fits a lot of the imagery in that board.

He fits a lot of things I've done.

Masks. Something I had an issue with. He's about masquerades.

He's about a lot of things. Where to start?

That girl you want back? I wish she existed too. But she was just a mirage.

Solitude in paradise

I hate being bugged with problems when they can't even help with mine.

I look up at my board of letters I've received throughout the years from my friends. One from a cousin that likes to keep in touch. Can't say I understand it.

I remember when I first put these up. I was miserable about being lonely. I didn't want to feel like a loser. These pieces of paper were like proof that I wasn't a loser. That people interacted with me and I existed in real life unlike those loser NEETs.

But when I look at these letters I don't really care who they're from or what they say. Just that they're proof that I “had friends.” That I wasn't a loner loser.

But I seriously don't give a damn about the people behind them. I haven't contacted these people in years and I still don't care to. I don't care about them.

I think I'm incapable of caring about anybody. Someone could give me the most thoughtful gifts and letters and I just wouldn't fucking care. I quickly forget about them in favor of fiction. Fantasies. People who aren't real.

I don't get lonely anymore. Because I know what it feels like to put myself out there. So much anxiety and stress to fit in or be appropriate or what. For what? For measly company that doesn't do anything for me? Please. I'm a selfish artist who lives in dreams and fantastical worlds. Nothing compares.

What's lonelier is trying to fit in where I'm just in pain from being perceived and judged.

Being alone is freedom from all that. I haven't craved company in the longest while.