pandemic diary pt 3

(strange to not know what a good thing is anymore    
   
or to not know why everyone else seems like people    
even the sad ones    
i don't have to think about what makes them human    
lost feels like such an underwhelming term    
to not know)    
   
   
i could tell you so many stories    
i could start a year ago, or three years ago    
but the string of terror that lead up to them    
would always be the same    
and they would be the same    
and the things that came after?    
   
   
looking back on anything i can't figure out why i tried so hard    
i thought maybe it'd make me look good    
i'd win bigger prizes, win better compliments    
like it was valuable to be loved anonymously    
and now that i don't want that, i don't know what i want at all    
all the jobs i've given up    
the people that i've let go    
even the people i hang around for    
where to go, now that i have this opportunity    
and to be unsure if i will waste it    
   
   
and the urge to talk about the men!    
who are so unnecessary to talk about    
not beautiful, not complicated or overcoming like everyone else    
just hurdling through life on privilege and ego and only sometimes regretting it    
on the backs of everyone else, but especially me    
and even knowing that eventually my specific anger will subside    
and only a few of the painful things will stay in my memory    
i can't help but feel that violation    
to do what i did and to be so abruptly let go a few days later    
like not trying in a crisis meant self healing    
when things like not having full bodily autonomy are still a hot fucking topic    
or the science coming out that being fat doesn't inherently make you unhealthy    
or when over 80% of the ocean is still unexplored    
or things like black holes and life on other planets and the    
literal government letting us know that UFOs are just hanging around    
like trying meant    
that we would fail    
just because we're sad    
   
and i gotta tell you dude, if reading all this shit    
i wrote when i was teenager tells me anything    
i'm always going to be sad    
i am always going to be exhausted doing the most basic human things  
and i can try and i can change and i can dress better if only to love myself more that specific day    
and i can move somewhere new and i can help those i love    
i can still fucking hate myself and appreciate what i put into the world    
because i'm trying, even though i never really had a good reason to    
and    
you know what? it doesn't make me any less deserving    
i know that now    
   
   
so    
   
   
PS. fuck you