by Rie

Sometimes I think I would shed every memory (at the expense of functioning, etc.) to rid myself of the nagging thoughts that invade when I have moments of quiet.

It’s 5 pm and I have not finished studying. I should have realised much, much earlier that I do not study well with just colouring in words with highlighters.

And, for some reason, there’s this crushing sense of reality that is pushing, pulling, breaking the makeshift tissue holding me together.

I think this is what people mean by teenage angst. It’s just that I wasn’t a proper teenager and am dealing with it much later in life. It’s like getting the chickenpox as an adult, I think. You go, “God, I wish it got me when I was a child.”

Some people are wise and say, “That experience caused me pain but has made me so much better.”

I’m still at, “That experience has caused me pain has caused me pain has caused me pain-“

It’s on loop.

I just want to pull my curtains close, turn off all the lights, and stare at the blinding laptop screen to write. (Pen and paper don’t really work in darkness.)

I wish – wish so hard my clasped hands run bloodless – for something to change.

How can you do something about something that doesn’t exist? What is there to change? What can I do? What do I do in this purgatory?

I hate these questions. They invite knowing glances and mock-sage answers.

Rhetorical questions are rhetorical. Why do you attempt to answer?

Why do I wish you had an answer?

Not one rooted in religion or pretension or derision.

My head feels light as I write this.

The human intellect is a cruel, limited thing. I try too hard to solve my problems with the non-existent magic of my thoughts. Try too hard to borrow from minds greater than mind (but are limited all the same).

I toss these careless words, careless thoughts to the wind.

I hope that is enough for now.

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