“Honestly, I don’t know how exactly you think a person should be but I promise you that whatever it is I will never be it. I am always getting better. I am always getting worse. Sometimes both in the span of five minutes. And I’m not going to bother explaining the who’s and the what’s and the why’s of it. My narrative isn’t a clean one. And neither is yours. Thank God. Thank god for messy, beautiful, fucked up, exciting, happy, sad, and complex lives. Now let’s all finally stop pretending that any other kind exists.”
I used to take the Pacific Surfliner up and down the coast when I was younger. From Ventura to San Diego. From San Luis Obispo to Los Angeles. Sometimes to Santa Barbara.
I would sit in these trains when I was 16, 17, 19, and even 21 and I would think about everything bad that’s ever happened to me and everyone I’ve loved. Melancholia, melancholia. melancholia. Say it three times in the mirror and see what happens to ya.
I’d barely remember the cities that passed through the window and my eyes would start to feel heavy so I’d start to close them and it would be like that for hours, just existing in this fugue-like state and you know what? I’d like it. I’d like it when I couldn’t open my eyes because that means I couldn’t see anything that would disappoint me. I was so tired of being…
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