If my internet starts working again today, I’ll post this blog.

I’m writing it on one of those sticky notes you can put on your computer. I don’t like word documents; they feel too much like homework. This morning I woke up thinking about him again. It’s been a month now, and it was his birthday on Thursday. Wednesday was a good day, though. I felt good, independent, happy. Today, I feel kind of blaze, tired, lost. It isn’t enough to know that each day gets easier; it’s a lie we tell ourselves to get through the one we’re in. When do we stop telling lies and start looking at truths? What are the truths though? No one has the same truth; it’s all a complicated web of intersubjectivity. In the betweens is where truth lives, which is why we can never find it, never feel it, never taste it. Why do crazy people like me, then, constantly try to find it? What’s the use? What difference does it really make to know the truth rather than looking at the consequences? I guess I’d like to think in truth lies knowledge, the knowledge of why that escapes all understanding.

I used to think I could make myself into an optimist, a person who looks happily on things, someone with a positive outlook on the future, on the present, and on the past. This was just a lie I told myself. I still dream, I still live in that dream world but I can separate it from reality. I am a walking contradiction. I suppose most people are. The more people I know the less I want to know them.

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