A Collection of Spectacles


i’m so tired. exhausted.

what seems like the most miniscule of things upsets me most because…it just gets to me.

but still i wonder, is it even worth explaning?

(note: the next few months will probably read like an enticing script)

i feel like i’m only interesting when it’s convienient to think so and i’m so tired and sick of that. i don’t want to matter occassionally. i should command importance all the time.

i’m never going to get what i want in this instance. i’m starting to realize this.

still, i keep placing one hand in the situation because i’m so fearful that i’m going to shut the door on it forever and, when i do, i’ll realize that i was wanted and i just denied myself that right forever.

what’s most upseting is that i’m starting to realize that nothing’s perfect, as obvious as that sounds. immature as it is, i used to hold you in such high accord and, like when i finally realized that my parents were human and not as great as once i once thought them to be, i’m experiencing a bit of
of sorts.

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