During yoga the other day I thought about the idea of vanishing. And how there’s comfort in fleeing into the night. To leave and never return. To ghost forever. Start over somewhere new. How there’s a salvation in dropping everything you know, for everything else that’s waiting.

I used to self-destruct. Some days I don’t doubt I still do. But I am trying really hard to figure out an outlet where self-destruction doesn’t equal a loss of everything I worked hard to build.

Writing. I love to write… I used to love to write. And so here I am writing again. Because it’s the only reprieve I have left. A place I can pretend to vanish. A world that’s entirely make believe. I can say anything on paper. I can express all of my thoughts.

Post apocalypse, yet still in the midst. There’s a pandemic. Nothing is happening, but everything is falling apart. We’re all lost. We were always lost to begin with. I’m tired of life, and everything that comes with it. And in order to feel anything, I need a pain so big it hurts me. Numbs me. Destroys me.

When have I become scared of myself?
Pristine. Pretty. Silent.

Creatively I have flatlined. I am dying. And I can’t wait to be alive again.

Post apocalypse. Resurrect. I want to come back home to myself.

A perfect world looks like something on my own time, in my own way. Inspired. I want to be inspired. I want every little fucking thing to move me. Ignite me. Set me on fire.

We'll be here awhile. What do you think will happen? “Not sure.” he says.
I guess we’ll see what will come of this.

I’m going to vanish. Flee into the night. Gone forever.
I’m starting somewhere new. Leave everything I know, for everything else that is waiting.

KB