i’ve been unhappy for so long that it feels like the norm.
it’s the boredom that causes it.
every day is filled with sycophantic, insipid morons that don’t even have the pleasantness for it to not matter.
i don’t want to feign interest in people i hate, i don’t want to act okay when i’m not, i don’t want to have to come to terms with the fact that the world is dull and cruel and that my existence seems to be a crime.
I don’t suppose I really know you very well - but I know you smell like the delicious damp grass that grows near old walls and that your hands are beautiful opening out of your sleeves and that the back of your head is a mossy sheltered cave when there is trouble in the wind and that my cheek just fits the depression in your shoulder.
i’m so sickeningly bored of everything. i see the same unwelcome faces every day, have the same mundane conversations and petty arguments. all i hear about who’s a bitch or a slut or a player or which celebrity has had plastic surgery and why that makes her a bad person.
i want to be so far away from this, and i’m fed up of waiting around for my life to start.
in your life there will be no sun-smeared ecstasies, you won’t be lovely in your (lavish) despair, no poignant denouement. with pretty, shallow words literature has trained you to expect pretty, shallow triumphs (a sort of perfection, i suppose), but all you’ll have is half read novels and the drinks that you’ll have at 2am 3am 4am and the nagging concern that you may have forgotten to brush your teeth.