I said, "Please take care of yourself. Please love yourself more. The more you love someone else, the more you give them the power to hurt you. The more you love someone else, the more you give them the power to heal you. Usually they hurt you. And then you wonder, how it is possible, for a single person to make you feel so unworthy and so small. And then you realize, that it was you who gave them that ability. You shouldn't have, but you did. You held out your hand, only to give yourself a firm and tight slap on the cheek. If you don't love yourself, nobody will, because we live in a cruel and selfish world. I can't make you any promises that I'll always be here for you. I can try, but I won't, because it will never be good enough for anyone."

How did those words escape my lips, and do I really believe in it? Such confidence, such certainty.

Self-control. This society thrives on it and laps it up. The more you are able to control yourself, the more you are seen as responsible, capable, and independent. The more you are able to control yourself, the more you are able to change how the world perceives you. What you should feel and when you should feel it, in front of whom and behind whom. Less of anger, more of joy. A perfect smile.

How do they do it? Say the right things at the right time. Such confidence, such certainty, that the world, as it should be, is beneath their feet.

What can I control if I cannot even control myself?

Teach me not to feel, so much, that it frightens me, and makes me wonder, if this body truly belongs to me. Maybe there really are a thousand occupants living in this dark little room, every one of them oblivious to the existences of the others brushing by.

It will pass. It always passes. We wait and we wait for this to pass and that to pass, this emotion, this period of time, this person, this dreadful song. Where will we be when everything passes?

Hop on to the next train, the one where everyone is happy even though no one knows where they are going and how long the journey will last.

The decay of meaning.

You are so drunk that you don't even know you're beautiful.