the novel I’d write

It seems that since I’ve entered college, approximately from February to April is a time of deep self-introspection – a real hell for someone who cannot deal with her internality of thoughts at times.

Usually I’d opt to write down my thoughts during these times – a catharsis for my mind to let everything out for anyone to find, when I’m struggling to get out of my own head. I missed out on it last month though. Entering the real tangible twenties felt empty to say the least. Empty and void of the things I’d thought I’d have – happiness, meaning, life.

I just didn’t have the real guts to admit it to myself at the time with the act of more introspection and writing. So I avoided it because in part, I had nothing to say.

Growing older, I’m realizing how crowded I am as a person. Filled with so many anxieties and insecurities that I can’t even start to count them off. Each one held up by single thread that I can’t seem to cut. It’s deafening to the soul to realize how stuffy my mind really is.

If I were to write something about totality of the months from February to April, I’d call it the state of constant sadness. Doesn’t really matter what prompted it, but rather that it started in the first place. That I somehow can’t find happiness or lightness within myself no matter how deep I pretend to search.

I somehow try to live off of people’s pity, cry whenever the possibility of emptiness appears, and hurt those closest around me during these months. And it’s a curse that I helplessly tied to when these months come.

I can’t be certain, but I think this trend will end next year. It’s something that I will not miss when I exit this fiction called College Hill and enter a different dimension of reality.


Enough of that pity party though. A few film outtakes from my last trip.


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