Because I’m in a rare confessional mood and it’s past midnight and I can’t think of anything great to say or I’ve said so much of it in my earlier posts today and I’m saving it up for the week. Or because I’ve just read Thought Catalog and a healthy dose of that always gets me in a mood to think and write like this. Oh and by the way, I have a crush on Ryan O’Connell. Yes, I totally get that he’s gay and that I’ve never had a conversation with him and how can you crush on someone’s writing? Because you can, is all.

Actually my confessional moods aren’t all that rare (How’d this blog have survived 8 years otherwise, dummy??). Let me assume that people who want to read my stark ravings (yes, as a noun) and mad ramblings aren’t rare either. That, or they’re a floating populace but as long as the numbers keep punching in, who cares? Wrong thing to say but we’re confessing here, no judgements.

Yesterday exactly 3.35a.m., I was hit by a pang so sharp it hurt. And just hours earlier, I’d been hit by a memory so sweet, it stung. It was my friend Ajay messaging me right after the holy mess of June,

“I’ve been where you are and back and I can tell you, it does get better.”

Then this afternoon, another fingernails-on-board screeching memories. Not of conversations or people but that sinking, sinking feeling. I’m so scared to approach certain places or times or people or memories. Scared that tears will just began running with my nose to match. Petrified of the horrible noise, scarder still I’ll discover that it’s me screaming, scardest of the disdainful, disappointed looks from everyone else around. I met his best friend tonight and he told me,

“I know. It will get better. Till then, I’ll wave to you when I see you. Just smile back at me. And…don’t be a stranger.”

My breath has been stuck in my throat ever since and all I’m subsisting on is the artificial apparatus I call, “Let me pretend something else is up.”

Words, words, I want to wield the power of words the way other people unwittingly, unflinchingly use them on me. A friend said to me last week that I don’t know where the online world ends and where the offline begins, that I’m saying and being all the wrong things. But I want to say, I don’t know who I am any more. I’m lost in a world of pain. Hurting, hurting, hurting so much. Every word is a wound and it’s also the balm for the wound. You can’t get that until, well, you do and because there is still that much love in me, I hope you never have to. Yes, love. Because when I’m not in this painful place, I won’t be in the confessional anymore.

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