the harshness of the final fight because it really does not get easier. i've held onto empty bottles of european products for the mere sake of something tangible. i really did live this, and it really was. (but my conscious self, it cannot believe it anymore.) all of these meaningless spanish and swedish beauty products are just nonsense taking up space under my bathroom sink, but i can't bring myself to throw them out. it all feels like a dream that i can't remember any details of. "and now you can't even recall any of the names, faces, or lines, it's more the feeling of it all." i'll read the fine swedish print on the bottle. i read this for six fucking months. these combinations of characters that i didn't even take notice of after some time, which i'm now clinging to as if it is a vital organ.
EVERY DAMN GOOD THING IN THIS WORLD IS SOMETHING WHICH ISN'T TANGIBLE.
and that's what makes it so difficult
to feel,
see,
to understand,
so hard to love,
appreciate,
and to scream about
anything of importance
these important things, well, they cannot be contained in glass jars, neither pressed into an overflowing suitcase, neither plastered to a wall, neither preserved in paint, nor written in a journal. they have to be felt, seen, understood. loved, appreciated, and screamed about in the moment they occur. because now they are over. smells of smiles so faded, dumb photographs on my wall, drunken signatures sprinkled across a world map, forgotten voices and dispositions of people i love. there's nothing left besides paralysis from empty feelings and empty bottles.