March 4 2026 at 23:20

It’s late and I can’t sleep, a thousand questions are running through my mind. A thousand facets of myself are noticed.
I like to talk to people that make me feel human, I’m silent around those that even one iota of me feels uncomfortable with, it’s weird, I’m weird.
I love my differences.
Lately interacting with people has been overstimulating, I’ve felt most alive and most normal when alone, this is probably a side affect from having my developmental years stunted by covid. But I feel like I’ve always been like this too.
I don’t dislike people or anything, I actually do yearn for connection.
It’s like when I feel comfortable around someone I spew a wall of speech at them with a thousand different topics and roads within it.
I’m tired.
I’ve realized I’ve become the person I’ve always wished I had for myself, it’s nice, but I wish I could have someone to rely on, or be comforted by.
I sleep with my pillows, on tough nights I hold one close to myself and squeeze it slowly curling into the fetal position wishing to sleep sooner and sooner. I can hug a pillow as tightly as I want, I could never hurt it on accident.
My mother says I’m extremely talented, I’ve slowly started to say the same about myself, I’m proud of the work I make. Does anyone else see my value?
I feel I am always in a battle to prove my humanity, to prove my worth, to show that I am worthy of being cared for, but what’s the point in doing that?
A job that over looks you
A relationship that doesn’t value you
Fake friends with fake smiles
I look at others with a hollow look I feel, a real smile stains my face but I’m tired. I have no will to keep pretending.
Make art or die lingers in my head.
The old me is still being shed,
Make art and live,
I’m trying
I’m waiting, I’m going, I make, I smile, I laugh, I joke, I have fun, I return to hell, the cycle repeats.
I’m waiting.
I’m making.
I’m waiting.
I’m making.
I’m living,