The strange thing is, that just when I think I know anything, I really don’t know anything. How does one pick a favorite color or know their gender or what sex they’re attracted to, or what they want to be when they grow up. Lots of people do. But I feel like everything slips through my fingers. I feel formless most of the time, wishing I could redact everything I’ve said about myself, in a constant state of knowing, then not knowing. I give myself a headache trying to figure things out. I want to be nothing, make art, take care of my body, love my friends, fall in love with trees, talk to the fae, wonder at flowers and the art of a good story.
I want to feel alive and find the beauty in all things and not think for awhile. I want to know what lies beyond what we can see and laugh and feel like the wind when I skate. I want to stop wanting to die. I want to believe. I want to enjoy big hugs and deep talks and for the world to heal from its ugliness. I want to just be what I am without the names anymore. It’s so hard here. And no one really knows what they’re doing, do we?
Somehow I exhaled yesterday. For me, so much doesn’t even matter anymore. That can happen when your brain is trying to kill you. You just realize how precious it is to exist at all.
I always say I’m just carrie. I’m just chaos walking. And that’s enough.