love me. forever. or never.

The same cycle–excitement and despair, excitement and despair.

I lose everything, and everything belongs to oblivion,

I do think that it is hard for me to share myself with everyone. My introspection and queer thoughts always make me feel no one will understand – except someone I love. When I love someone, I make myself increasingly vulnerable to them – and give them the power to hurt me.

What if the nearest exit is within me?

My problem heart was a false me/you. And pursuit and withdrawal was too much right here.

No one knows me or loves me completely. I have only myself.

Through the storms and through the calms she always keeps—and this is her strength—her instinct for self-preservation. She never gives herself entirely.

Repeat after me: I am the woman of my own dreams. I require no validation. My wish is my command. My life is my own. I build it. My voice is my own. I use it. I am relentless in my dedication to trusting myself. I am insatiable in my thirst for the extraordinary, and I do not settle for the mediocre. I Live Without Dead Time.

What matters is not to allow my whole life to be dominated by what is going on inside me. That has to be kept subordinate one way or another. What I mean is: one must not let oneself be completely disabled by just one thing, however bad; don’t let it impede the great stream of life that flows through you. I have the feeling of something secret deep inside me that no one knows about.

I write to be coarsened, to be torn to pieces, and then to lose my importance, to unburden myself—for the text to take my place so that I exist less. There are only two ways I manage to free myself of me: by the idea of suicide and the idea of writing.