There I was, soaking myself in bubbly water, reading Gatsby and thinking about this thing growing inside my head that I hated.
I don’t know what is it about Fitzgerald that made me want to drown in that goddam bathtub or why it made me remember or why I’m deciding to tell this horrendous story with untasteful humor… as with most things in my life, I just don’t know.
Continue reading “A horrendous story of Gatsby and Anxiety”
The more I think about it, the more I realize, I barely write about experiences. Or rather, I do but they are more of incidents that happy-ending stories. I write about people, and encounters with them; I write about valued humans and relationships. I’ve always found them intriguing.
I think, the less of the special ones you have in life, the more you worry about losing them and the constant notion of people leaving never disappears. More importantly, being scared of actually telling loved ones that I’m afraid of losing them is the illness I have. Because that makes me vulnerable. And people never like vulnerable. I guess I like being liked by people.
Continue reading ““Tolerable Letters to my Tolerable Friends or not-so””
A letter to myself.
You live in the shadows and you don’t know it yet. Trying to be something was never enough for you; you wanted to be everything. The things you tell yourself are the things told by the greatest to the weak. You can not bring yourself down like that. You never considered yourself weak. Overthinking kills and rules you. You never realized how bewitching your mind truly is. You dwell on details and your heart is so fragile, it crumbles more often that it needs to. Sadness has become your comfort and it feels strange when life actually seems heavenly. Continue reading “A Letter.”