v u l v a l i c i o u s
time hasn't passed. it just hasn't.
i could've written my last entry at any point in the past two years. it's a holding pattern, though i've just realized i don't entirely know what that means (references, really) other than a lack of movement.
as someone vaguely horrified by change, you'd think that might sound good. but it doesn't. not at all.
i don't have much to say, really. i miss my family. i still don't want to be alive most days, not in the killing way but in terms of dreaming of the void: being swallowed by something beyond me and letting my consciousness shatter into a million shards, scattering across the world and out into the universe. i think about a piece of me inside of a star, all the parts that will collect in trees, and it feels vast and perfect. different from being sixteen and unafraid of death because i was confident in my openness to god (capital G, honestly). but not so different, really, because it's still not true. not really.
i've written some stories that i'm proud of. that's nice. i'm still struggling under the weight of chronic fatigue and depression. still fucking up a lot.
i cut my hair, so that's a change.
it's the little things, i guess