You've always been so good at detachment, so here you go: books and walls and places and words and songs and sentences and photographs processed by just a subtle touch of pressure on a camera's button wrapped around moments, hours, and days to protect yourself from thoughts, feelings, and situations you'd rather do away with for now. Stop talking to (some) people. Retreat into your shell. Let your absence be felt. Make them miss you. Make them not miss you. Whichever suits you best. Whichever is the better fit. Blend into the smoke and mist because you know that you're good at this.
Dive into a pool of words that aren't your own. Throw yourself into the growing pile of books stacked by your bed that you've accumulated through all these months that you've spent doing something entirely else instead, for crying out loud. Stop complaining about this small, tiresome place and go. Mark Twain once said that books are for people who wish that they were somewhere else. Stow your passport away. This presents itself as an opportunity to step out of your shadow, to slip out of your life for once; to live and breathe the air from a world that isn't your own.
Enclose yourself inside rooms with walls that do nothing but keep your secrets, that aren't bothered by the things you whisper in your sleep at night. Listen to songs that don't remind you of things, instead, listen to the ones that keep you afloat, the ones which defeat the whole purpose of you writing, the ones with loud guitar riffs, the ones imbued with forgetfulness. And finally, take pictures. Take a lot of them. Take a whole shit load. And always, always smile, so you can look back someday and when all you have left are pictures, then at least they were from a time when you looked happy.
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(I've been rewriting this for days. Just finally got the nerve to publish it now. Nothing I write sounds any good and I guess what this all translates into is: I need a break. A long one. Two weeks doesn't feel quite enough. I've been reading, eating, sleeping more and writing less these days.)
Seventeen and studying Psychology. I like books, coffee, lyricism, magic hour, (in)signifcant moments, free-verse poetry, mental disorders, female anatomy, pretty smiles, late night conversations, and the time it takes for two people to transcend the boundary between strangers and friends.
I keep sadness at bay by constantly falling in love with the little things in life. My name is Anna and this is where I try to write.
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