it’s raining outside today, and i binged “like a bird,” by fahira róisín. melancholia is the only word to use here. i eat that **** up. do i tend towards sadness as a means to escape my own? or to find solace in shared identity?

i’m hungry, but i don’t want to cook.
i’m tired, but i find it hard to sleep.
i’m lonely, but i don’t know how to be anything else.

im thinking about the future, a new concept for me. ever since i were young, i’ve had trouble imagining the future. not because i didn’t think i’d be alive, per se. i simply didn’t know how to see something that hadn’t yet happened. or maybe i didn’t want to see for myself everything i saw around me.

it’s hard to imagine a future completely different than the world that you’ve grown accustomed to.