For over a year I’ve been worrying about the life I left behind. No combination of words or activities or people is going to make me stop missing it, however I get slight comfort from the thought that…at least I lived that life. At least I did all these crazy things running around every night, at least I have some unforgettable memories. At least my life has some sustenance. Not everyone can say they did what I did, and those who can are usually still living that life and I doubt that’s going well for them. It hurts me to think about having to change but I’m still determined to get healthy, driven by this fantasy that I might actually reach a point in my life where I can say all the pain and suffering uphill was worth it; a point where I have all the supplies I need to be happy, so I don’t need drugs or thrills to fill the void.
A lot of days I get sad. I think about the past, and it makes me want to claw myself out of my body and run back for those moments. All these good moments I’m referring to happened in 2014. In 2015, I have mostly horrible memories. Listening to Lana Del Rey’s Honeymoon album when I found out I was losing someone special to me definitely made me lose taste for the album, and now it’s a low key rotting feeling in my stomach every time I hear it, as if my insides were losing their vibrancy and dulling into mechanic remnants of what used to be my natural passion and bounce. But this is all just because I worry too much, I’m out man.
PS Featured image is a picture from almost exactly a year ago today… the last time I lived the past.