This is the problem. At night I end up wanting to write on the walls because their dull whiteness reminds me of being sick.These days even hospitals look less sullen and lonely. I want to pick up a crayon and write endlessly across this space. I want the walls to echo everything that pulses through me.
I’ve been a mess this week. All the crying could not be ceased and at some point, mom gave me a tight squeeze and teared up as well. She lamented the time I spent in my room saying that it didn’t help. Of course it didn’t help. Being here and alone never does.
But you know, I realized something yesterday. Happiness is a choice. it really is. I used to believe this without so much as a doubt in my mind but now that the world seems to have happened to me, I’m not as sure of this as I was before. But I guess I can try right?
I want these.