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i arrived from my trip around 10am yesterday. by 1pm, i already couldn’t take being at my parents’ house. so i went for a walk. a 3 hours walk, with a cry face and the sun burning my head. i though it would be cathartic (i keep searching for that feeling a lot) to visit some memorable places in the city for me.

i started with this place near my therapist’s office because it means everything to me to know that it exists. like i could, eventually, overcome anything if i just keep coming back. the moment i got there, i sat and cried for a while, because i didn’t feel like therapy was helping me because i keep feeling that i am not helping myself so – what’s the point. i judge myself a lot when i don’t meet certain standards, and i am not meeting any and it’s been hard to love myself when this happens. it’s a fucking challenge that i don’t know how to deal with. also, there was this brief period of time in august that i was feeling very hopeful and good and there was this beautiful tree here with purple flowers and i said that i would come back with my camera and take a picture of it, but i never did. so now the flowers are not as purple and not as many, so i cried about that because i didn’t took the picture when the flowers were there, i didn’t enjoy it when i had it, i didn’t value them. so i took a crappy phone picture anyway and told myself that spring comes every year. it didn’t make me feel okay with what i did, not in the slightest, even though it’s true and then i thought about how i often think things have no solution nowadays.

then i came to the first house i ever lived. the first and one of the few i was able to call home (the other two are: the one i didn’t feel comfortable enough to be in hours earlier and the other one is this one, but i couldn’t visit the latter). i think it’s sad that right in front of this house there was a two storey wood house that i used to visit because i was so in love with the wooden stairs and how awesome and old every thing was and now that house no longer exists. only in my memory. and that made me start thinking about all the things and people that only live inside my memory and that perhaps is something i should tell myself every day when i can’t get out of bed. when the thought of “living” is not enough, i could just say to myself: you are also a witness to all these memories. you should keep them alive by honoring them and showing them some other parts of the world that they will never be able to see. and it just makes me cry so much that i can’t convince myself that i am enough and able to get through all of life, but i am able to do it if i think about memories, or other people, or concepts of movement and theories of a futures where i no longer will feel exactly this amount of sad and unworthiness.

and then, this spot. every story has a beginning, a middle and a climax. i remember drinking cheap wine here. i think it’s one of my favorite memories of all time, probably because it brings back thousands others. i remember asking for kisses and not getting them, too. which brings other memories. i didn’t stay here as long as the other two places, because i was dying of thirst. i lingered with that rationalization for a second. the things i thought when i was at this spot are hard to be written down. i wanted to run and flee from there; i wanted my feet to stop killing me; i wanted my lungs to give me more air, even though my brain kept telling me i wasn’t able to process any more than what i was getting; i wanted to scream, but i also didn’t want anyone to notice me. i wanted time to stop; and the pain to either eat me alive or to just let me be for a while. i didn’t really want to run from there, i wanted to run from me and from what i was living at that moment. i felt angry because i knew that what i needed wasn’t there. i lingered with that thought too; all the way back home.

listening while writing: Albert Hammond Jr. – Spooky Couch

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