It is 12.10am on the 17th of December 2015. I cannot sleep. I am not sad. I am not happy. I am not sick. But I am tired. Tired in a special way that makes your whole body ache at the thought of your own existence. You read the words of loved one and instead of that beautiful feeling of butterflies in your gut, you are hurt.
Are you afraid? Are you afraid that one day those words will be nothing more than that? Just words. Times before left you aching for someone to fill a hole that they just did not fit. And why? You asked them to remove your limbs but why should they change for you? What are you going to do with a pair of extra arms?
And I should’ve always listened to my mother because she was never wrong. But I learned all too fast that my mother cannot control the world and my heart is on fire whilst she is just a leaf. We all burned down.
I find myself looking back on my life and honestly I cannot remember half of it, I’m going dead, I can’t see and I’m outspoken. But I still wait up all night to read words that never come. To feel love that doesn’t exist.

But who am I? A girl with too many limbs, each abandoned by those souls that tried to fit into that hole. It’s just so much easier to hold on now.
But this is where I get too metaphorical and we imagine an octopus lady shoving innocent people into a tiny hole. But we still can relate.

I write a lot of letters, attempting to make my last words profound and beautiful so that one day my best friend will tattoo it across her heart and swear to live in my memory.
But alas my life was fortunately not penned by John Green and I won’t die in a mysterious car accident and I won’t run away from home and I probably won’t die of cancer. I’ll live until I’m 83 years old, after many years of marriage to a man I stopped having sex with in my twenties.
Because that’s the reality of life. I can daydream of suicide and true love and romanticize words I don’t understand all I like. But that’s not what will happen.

This is it.

—  midnight thoughts