Sometimes I wonder whether my words would mean more if I was dead, than if I was alive. In theory, it makes sense, humans typically treasure the past more than the present, there’s a reason why society has treasured so many creatives only after they’ve died; Vincent Van Gogh is a prime example. It’s a dark thought, but I’ve considered being the Van Gogh of writing, but maybe without the missing ear.
There’s a stereotype where it’s considered oversharing to talk about your feelings and maybe it’s there for a reason, but I can’t keep giving people an unrealistic view of myself. Sharing isn’t really something I prioritise; mainly because I value my privacy, but I can’t keep living a superficial social media lie. For those who’ve known me for a while, this whole issue is part of the reason why I left social media in the first place.
This post is already such a mess and I hate disclosing any personal information about myself, but I’m going to try a little honesty. Transparency is dead on social media and I’ve always held myself a little distant, but I can do that without ignoring the shit and pretending that everything’s butterflies and rainbows.
I know the purpose of my existence and I’ve realised that people are more attracted to pain than constant happiness. Darkness is sexier than light and it’s time to embrace it.
Happy birthday A, I hope I broke your birthday bad luck.
I’m letting go so I can begin a new chapter, there’s no point in glorifying the past while ignoring the present.
Sidenote: I am okay, thanks for asking, I’m just a hot mess from time to time…most of the time.