Glass Moth Codex

I'm not losing my mind.

I'm not losing my mind.

If I say it enough times,

I think I'm going to kill myself.

Dramatic, I know, and the superstitious side of me fears the very power I might be calling upon by writing it out. Thoughts are ephemeral, but to write it –more than even, to voice it– feels prophetic, and entices destiny.

Now I just sound pretentious. I suppose that's because I never write for myself. No, every word and thought is drawn with the notion of someone else reading it someday. Understandable, considering I live my life as if ever watched and ever judged. Breathing is permitted but never freely given. And I've never quite managed to catch my breath. Such an existence begets a want for oblivion.

But death is messy, and never dignified.