I never, ever know. How is it possible to really be this unsure? About everything? Maybe I’m just a million different people all pressed into one, maybe I’m no one at all.
Maybe everything that I do is driven by the desire to sink into the dark. Maybe my true love is thinking. I think I’m sad all the time because it validates at least something. Because if I were to take all of that away, if I were to shed all my tears so that there were no more, I would be made of nothing. At least I am something on the nights I want to hurt myself. I’m an abandoned house in the woods. It’s so much easier to fill myself up with sadness than it is to accept absence.