i’ve barely been able to write. i think i’ve run out ways to turn feelings into metaphors. sometimes angst is just angst and there is nothing poetic about it. sometimes i think i’m just pretending to be alive. i crave fresh air, but i think i’m just hardwired to need it. last week, someone told me i should picture my sadness as a living, breathing being in my room. assign it a shape and color and make it as physical as possible, to find ways to make it smaller and smaller until it disappears. but now my sadness just feels real, feels human. now i feel like i’m sharing a bed with it, scared to fall asleep in my own bed. guess i’ll just have to fall asleep in someone else’s. i’ve started writing lots of entries but haven’t been able to finish any of them. lately i’ve been dreaming of moving to the countryside. some rural town where nobody knows me well enough to expect anything of me. i know i’ll never end up leaving this place, though. i think i hold it so close to me because it gives me an excuse to be the way i am. my sadness, i mean. i don’t know who i’d be without it.