Write

Don't sabotage yourself, he says. I do nothing else. Write. 

What right do I have to create? 

I want to tell stories, that's all. Beautiful painful little tales. I still ache for the plot. Throw some more at me. Let me fall, like Alice, into reveries. Let me slice myself open on heartache, hurting deliriously from the knowledge it all will end, it almost already has. 

Well, it has. 

We're in the after. There are no more kisses, no potential. She didn't become an artist, or a scholar, or any other kind of immortal. She's just slowly dying. 

A kind of luck, of course. But still. 

Write. 

Shut up, I will. 

 Do you ever think that maybe you started disliking yourself to make it ok for someone else to hurt you?

Paradise Lost

The heart is heavy with melancholy, the mind is angry and hard. Want to do more art. Want beauty to be easily accessible in everyday life; not something to constantly compete for and never reach. Want more touch. Want to share life with a friend group like when we were students. Want to let myself be vulnerable again, be excited again.

I felt loved at this game and around it, and also intensely lonely. I felt beautiful and talented and also strange and clumsy and shaped wrongly and in the way. I want to dance five more hours of waltz; I want to start my own studio, making only games in the dark feminine aesthetic. I feel so much love. I want to drown myself in embraces.