what the hell, sure
T hursday afternoon. The light outside is soft, almost kind. I wish I felt the same way. I’m drowning myself in music, still looping the sad playlist I found last night. It offers a kind of sadness that doesn’t ask questions. It just sits with me, giving me enough stillness to write. I’m not looking for sympathy, just some release. Maybe I’ve run out of ways to say the same things without feeling ashamed. I hate how often I’ve had to unpack everything onto the same few people. The same thoughts, the same grief resurfacing, the same quiet unraveling. It’s gotten to the point where vulnerability feels like embarrassment, so I retreat to this instead. I’ve been trying to learn how to let go, or move forward, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Everyone says it gets easier. I’m still waiting for that part. Some days I convince myself I’m okay. That I’m past it. That I’ve accepted what happened. But if that were true, I wouldn’t feel this defeated. I wouldn’t be sitting here, ashamed of how m...