It’s just that I’m looking out this window and nothing feels real anymore.
The streetlight is bouncing off the snow, and it looks just like a painting, and it’s so beautiful. All I know is that I want to be somewhere where it looks like this all the time. And I know it isn’t here. I don’t know if that place exists, but I’m sure hoping that it does. I want to walk down shiny black streets with the light reflecting against my hair, and twirl and laugh and take in the beauty of wherever I am. I want to be able to look at pretty things and be happy that they are pretty.
I want to feel pretty.
You told me that snowflakes are all one-of-a-kind, each one a different shape and size. But when you take a step back, they’re all the same. You said that it’s kind of like people.
It’s just that looking out this window reminds me that almost every person in my life right now, or the ones that have left are all like that. I want people to move me. All they’ve done was leave their marks - whether they be scratches or indentations - then run away. Nobody seems to be anyone worth staying for. I want to go somewhere, and love that place, and meet new people, and love those people to pieces.
I’m telling you everything that I want, but I don’t know anything.
All I know is that nothing feels real.
life is tough when you’re a lazy perfectionist who simultaneously doesn’t give a shit about anything but at the same time cares too much about everything u feel