.I.

I am twenty and I've lost myself. I haven't found it back yet.

You can find me in rooms filled with old books and new music, stretching my limps over stacks of papers and leaning my head against dirty wooden shelves that I'm too lazy to tidy up, reading trashes on my tiny phone screen in the dark corners instead of the literature surrounding me, giggling and talking to Poet while she sits still and keeps silence. You will not be able to walk in through the doors because all the locks are rusty and unrepairable. But you can still talk to me through those tainted dusty windows. I can hear you. I'm not sure if I will answer or not. Depends on my mood at the time. I don't know how did I get into these rooms, all I remember is that I was drunk on caffeine and depression then when I woke up I was already here. I have no intention to get out yet.

The lights are falling down and we can see dust flying at dawn in those bright streams getting through the window's glass and it's beautiful in a way I used to love but I never take time to look again.

.II.

I am twenty and I'm in love with someone I shouldn't.

She is amazing and talented and smart and destructive and broken and passionate and. And. There are so many ands after that, I found synonyms to her names everywhere. I rip out pages in the thesaurus so I will have more things to write for her and I keep journals under my pillows and in my bags and basically every place possible so I could just swing my hand and get them when inspirations come. I stick pens in my hairbun a couple of times, it feels kind of ridiculous but I am filled with pride.

However, I do wonder sometimes if I'm in love with her or those emotions belong to the Poet. It's quite confusing because I share so many things with the Poet it's hard to draw a clear line in between. I feel like I'm using her as a mean to release my own emotions. Hopeless and ludicrous and awful and contemptible and. There are so many ands again. I hope she doesn't realise and hate me for it.

.III.

I am twenty and my friend is a shattered mess.

Sometimes I can't believe how fast it happened. I didn't hear the cracks and when I take a look she's already broken.

I try to hold her in my hand and I feel like that time I held my wrecked music box while I was seven. She is a ruin and all the outer parts broke but she's still a whole and the gears inside her are still intact. I don't know if this is good or bad. Because the music is trapped and her winding shaft, her drum and her comp are all shaking and I want to help her mending all the pieces back but I don't know how and I can't even if I know.

She is so strong and so fragile. I write for her in the mere hope that she will get better but I doubt if they make any difference at all.

There are so many times I wish I can get to her but then I'm not an artist or a mechanic, all I can do is standing here looking at this broken masterpiece in futility.

.IV.

I am twenty and my mom would tell me to get a life.

People would tell me to get a life. Make up and go out. Party. Drink. Kiss. Fuck. Have a boyfriend, have a decent job. Graduate. Move out. Start your life. As if telling me to set my mind right would magically get me back on track. I'm still sitting in the corner of my locked room, smirking at all the advices, blasting Stressed Out on max volume and I do want to get out sometimes but I'm not ready yet.

I don't know if I would ever be ready or people would just jam every pieces of me into a mold and tell me I'm ready while I'm not.

.V.

I am twenty and I used to believe I can do magic.

But then I realised everyone is taking their kind of medication this way or another and everything we see are just illusions from side effects.

.VI.

I am twenty and the colour of my dream is grey. Sometimes white, sometimes black.

The palette is pretty wide actually, if you look at it with artistic eyes. When I was ten I wanted to be a pilot, but then my eyes won't let me to. When I was thirteen I started to dream about holding awards on the catwalk with models wearing my designs, but then I dropped that dream without any real reason. When I was seventeen I was writing non stop and reading non stop and thinking non stop about publishing my debut novel, but then my mom told me I was dreaming a stupid dream so I stopped, eventhough I'm still writing and I'm still reading.

Now I'm twenty and I don't know what I want to be.

.VII.

I am twenty and my brain is sick but I hope I would eventually find a way.

Mon, 22/08/2016.