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I never really use this site, like, I've had it for awhile, but I mostly just lurk. Idk, anyways, wrote some stuff today, need to put it somewhere and its 4 am so nobody is really up to listen, haha.


We were having some conversation, in a park in Brooklyn, over a joint and cigs. And you know, it was so weird.

The others went ahead of us, and it was just me and a friend were trailing behind. He asked me a few questions about it, most of which being standard questions you'd ask to somebody who just told you that.

He said, "Don't you think those years you missed will come back somehow?"

And I replied with, "No, I'm pretty mature. I've always been mature for my age, you'd never believe I'm [Young]. I get told that all the time."

"Mature?"

"Yeah, mature. I keep myself busy, y'know?"

And then, he grabbed my shoulder and said, "Hope you heal, man."

He said it jokingly, like he was using humor to cope with the seriousness of the topic. We'd never really had conversations like this, and I certainly was not fond of it.

I went silent after that. I wasn't sure what to say. I was happy, I was successful or at least on track of being so.

I'm in college, in a major I like, I have plenty friends, I was social and meeting new people all the time, I have a girlfriend, My career was starting to pick up and I had just gotten a side job as bartender, which I actually like.

My whole life, at least what I remember, has been about making money, gaining fame and recognition. Not out of greed, or just the selfishness of wanting a better life, but out of an innate passion and desire to do something good, and you can't do no good without money.

We continued conversation after that, about whatever else came to mind, but in all my years of therapy that was something I'd considered.

I was happy, right? As long as I stayed happy. it would be fine. I can think back to some moments. Its not the type of amnesia where you forget your name or core parts of your personality, but rather dissociative, where everything is fuzzy like a dream you barely remember. It seems nonsensical, irrational or surreal when I think back on those years.

He brought up the topic again, maybe he could sense I was thinking about it.

"You're sure, you don't think its gonna come back in one way or another?"

I paused, and I just replied, "If it does, it won't be anytime soon."

He didn't seem satisfied with that answer, but didn't seem to press it any further. But, thats when it hit me. Was I just procrastinating? I procrastinate my work, my hobbies, I sit in my bed and doomscroll for hours, watching shows and telling myself that I'm 'consuming media to find inspiration'.

Inspiration? How was I supposed to go into a creative career if I need to sit for hours on end to find inspiration? I began to feel rushed for time, but it wasn't like I could just up and leave to draw or sew something.

So, if that's the case, am I really successful? If I lived everyday like I have been, would I actually get anywhere? Or am I just hoping that someone will come in, scoop me up and throw me into success?

And even further, is my block to inspiration somewhere in my lost memories? Is the inspiration I've been searching for hidden somewhere deep within my psyche? And what the fuck do I need to do to find it?

I can't lie, I'm angry. Angry with myself, for being so resentful in wanting to be better. Its like I don't want to be better, I want to be angry and sorrowful and mean, because thats what feels comfortable. I want to be angry, and I want to be kind at the same time. Whats wrong with me, I wonder? Is this explainable by science, or religion?

Even now, I want to cry. I want to cry and scream and yet I just can't. I keep myself distracted like I always do.

Drugs, liqour, getting lost in the music and lights of a good party, flirting with pretty strangers for extra tips or pretending like I'm listening when a friend tells me their troubles. I wish I could say it was fake, and just a ruse to cover who I really am, but thats the thing.

I think that is who I really am. I think I've gone so far in wanting to "authentically be myself" that the pendulum swung and now I'm,

Whatever I am now, I guess.

And the worst part?

No matter how many people tell me that they love me, that they're there for me, that they want to see me succeed; I just don't believe it. Truly, genuinely do not believe it's possible.

And the weird thing is, I'm not upset about it. I don't believe it, like I don't believe that its possible, and therefore not something to miss.

Is that because I'm not capable of feeling the same things for them? Is it because I'm so filled with resentment and jealousy that I want all their successes for myself? Is it because I cannot fathom myself caring for somebody else if it doesn't somehow benefit me? Am I so uncapable of real love and affection that I'm in disbelief should someone chose me?

Is my curse to be so incredibly narcissistic that I'm logically aware of how terrible I am, and yet so emotionally unaware that I'm anything below a God amongst men?

I partially wish someone could come in, reach their hand through my chest and grab my heart, take it out and examine it to determine exactly what was wrong with me. I do think the pain of that would be easier to bear.

I wish I could say my troubles began with one, specific instance; That witnessing my mother overdose on the carpet or my fathers illness overtake him is what led me to be this way.

But the thing is, its just not. I can't locate it, I can't locate the pain bridling within me and I can't locate where the tears stuck in my tearducts are coming from but somehow still getting clogged up. Is it that I can't remember, or is it that there is no reason? Is my soul unpure, uncleansed and thats why I'm this way? Do I have karma from a past life that comes to haunt me?

And now, I sit in my room, the urge to sit on my fire escape and cry until my face is red and puffy, and I know that I won't even do that.

I can't say I'm suicidal, I can't say I want to end my life.

I will procrastinate it, like I always do.