I told myself I'd drive my car to the ocean and stand at the edge of the land and scream until I was cleansed. I told myself I'd drive fast with the windows open, blasting loud music.
I told myself I could escape.
I told myself that when I was done being angsty and impulsive and young that I would grow into a perfect, wise being.
I would do it all with beauty and grace. Stress would not crinkle my brow or my soul, time would not wrinkle my skin.
I told myself that love would come and never go, that love was perfect in itself, Lovers may come and go, yes.. but love would never fade. Love and passion were as important to the self as breath and water.
At some point I knew these things to be untrue, but the delusions still remain, hidden behind other thoughts...
daily trivialities, thoughts about how "hard" it is to be impulsive, how "embarrassing" it is to be angsty, how "impossible" it is to be perfect. Love and passion are foreshadowed by compatibility and relationships. Romance is in a coma.
All of my beautiful self truths have become lies.
Growing is hardly the beautiful struggle of becoming aware, but rather a struggle to find some sort of oblivion that you can cope with. Struggling through a fog, no longer wishing for clarity or awareness. Hardly wishing for awakeness