no more
2005-02-22 || 6:36 p.m.

When I was small, before I learnt that the leaves on the trees and the wind in my hair and the dirt under my feet, had a more important place in any world than me, I lived sad, melancholy yet beautiful existences. In my head, in my books, in my play. When the sadness completely descended I spent hours in bed at night dreaming of my death. Of laying on the earth covered in dead flowers, of wailing, of crying, of a life lived in the wrong place. I thought I was so damn special. I thought I was misunderstood, I thought I was clever, intuitive, mystic. Hilariously, I thought I was someone special.

And I stayed that tragic, dreamy child. I stayed immature, and yet for a long time I recognised no such thing.

I still thought I was special. Just unlucky, misfortunate, a victim, misunderstood.

So I, the pathetic, moany, bitchy, aloof, sullen, sarcastic, cold, unloving, hyper-sensitive, stuck-up, snobby, dissatisfied, unapproachable queen of melodrama and hyperbole, decided to do something good: I decided to become a teacher. But the ego hadn't quite left me yet. Yes, I wanted to do something good. Yes, I wanted to make a difference. Yes, I went into teaching for all the noble reasons that you should go into teaching for. But it was still about me.

I still thought I was special. I was still that tragic child.

And then the sky darkened and the clouds grew thick and grey, and all my animals died. And Dylan went psycho and I got the message.

And I'm worn down. And it's goodbye to y'all because I'm outta here.