So, what was the unspeakable
thing I did? This crime I committed that I likened to a suicide of the soul?
I became someone I wasn’t. I
lived inauthentically. And when it’s all said and done, that is my goal—to be
me.
To live as though you are someone
else is the greatest crime one could ever commit. Just think of the art we are
not seeing, the words we are not reading, the songs we are not hearing because people
aren’t living authentically. It is, in fact, a suicide of the soul to
prostitute your life to the highest bidder. I refuse to be that girl anymore.
This was found in my mother's journal:
What gets people is the damn
monotony of the everyday—wake up, fill in the blanks, go to bed. It is those
fill-in-the-blanks that get me. I feel lost. I don’t know what to do with
myself that has any value. And so I sleep. I get high. I drink. I have sex with
random men. I break things.
And so, I know it’s better for
everyone if I just sleep. I take whatever pills I can find and whatever weed I
can smoke and I just sleep and hide from my child. Because the best thing for
her is when I am asleep.
It's like Ernest Hemingway says, "I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I'm awake, you know?"
I don’t want to be this way. The
mediocrity of life and the fear of failure paralyzes me.
Sometimes, I just want to get in
my car and drive…
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