Sometimes I remark at how foreign I seem to myself. I look down at my body and I see folds of skin marked “brown”, the gentle dips of pores dotted over my hands, and the width of my thighs as a frame.
I haven’t written on this blog for a while. I know I say that a lot, but like life, my posts have troughs and peaks. Though, I would hasten to call this a peak, so to speak.
It seems remarkable, in fact, that I should look at my posts and chuckle at the girl who wrote those words with tears in her eyes, looking at the door constantly in case someone should walk through and smash into her life with a word-shattering force, rendering her mute. It also seems remarkable that the girl in question is a past version of me, for I have no empathy with what she mused.
That girl is dead. She’s dead to me.
You might find such a statement curious. But the fact of the matter is that I am increasingly prone to forgetting who I am. These things come in cycles, and I do not recognise “myself”. It is not even frightening anymore. It’s just a fact of my so-called life.
My posts might start to be erratic. I might seem gloriously dark and gloomy one day, and then absolutely vile as a person the next. Then an hour later I might be the sun shining over mountains yelling at people to wake up and enjoy the view; that is, the sunrise.
Overall, I encourage you to ignore me. I always like abrupt endings. Now I’m getting distracted. I forget about the reader but then, this isn’t so much for you as it is for some function of me, is it? Hello people who know me, goodbye those who don’t.