You know what? I am finally over everything.
Every. Single. Thing. That happened last year.
My first real boyfriend; finally over the circumstances during the relationship and the end of it.
One of the hardest crushes to get rid of that I've ever had; finally over him.
My horrible treatment of a guy at Snoball; finally accepted that he forgave me.
I am free from last year.
And I intend to stay free.

On your Tumblr, your blog, your personal online diary, call it whatever you want. On there, you write that people don't see that you are dying inside, hurting inside, breaking.
You may THINK people see a put-together person, but most of us know what is happening, what has happened.
We see what you think we do not see. We know you are hurting inside. We CAN see it. Just because you are not confronted about it, or told, or notice that we know, does not mean we do not see. We are not blind. Humans are actually very perceptive beings. Even if some people deny it and ignore it, many of us see it, but do nothing. Because we either cannot, or we do not know how.
Every single person has a facade. Because society is so corrupted, we feel we cannot let other people see the real us, how we really work, who we really are. If we all dropped the facade, makeup would not be needed, clothes would only keep us warm, not define us, and smiles and scars and tears and fears and happiness and sadness and euphoria and depression and psychosis and indecisiveness would not need to be hidden. Unfortunately, our society is not like that. Will it ever be? I do not know. Maybe it will. Maybe it will not. But by the time it does or does not, we will not be around anymore to wonder about it anyways.

I am not cut out to be a dancer. I am not of the same material. I can't bend that way, turn this way. It hurts so bad to know and realize every single time you attempt something that you aren't meant to do what you love.

My Life

My life consists of school, dance, books, church, hanging out with friends, listening to friends, and observing people.
Monday through Friday I go to school. I listen, pay attention, do my homework, take tests, aim for good grades, deliberately not slack off, and refrain from smacking people who take away from my educational experience. Throughout this experience, I watch people. Their expressions, glances, movements, actions, etc.
Mondays and Thursdays I go to dance, and just by dancing for 45 minutes to an hour and a half, my stress level balances out.
Wednesdays I go to Faith Formation and try to listen, sometimes failing, sometimes not.
Sundays I go to church.
In my spare time, in the order and rank of things I do, I do homework, work on projects, read, listen to music, text my friends, go on Facebook and other Internet sites, sleep, hang out with friends, and sleep.
Occasionally I get the urge to dress up. I usually ignore it. Because dressing up, for me, entails wearing etiher a dress suitable for Homecoming (which I have more than four, and have only been to two formal dances at this point) or dressy, cute, sophisticated clothes, putting on makeup (I usually go natural), and wearing heels (which I love but since I consider myself tall I always degrade myself while wearing them and convince myself not to wear them). After considering if I really should, I decide not to and move on with my life. But sometimes I can't help think that if I had dressed, what would have changed. What could have happened.
A couple times in the week, I do have what I have dubbed "attacks". They encompass a gut-wrenching feeling of immense fear of death and what's after death, that I do not matter, that nothing matters, that once I die I won't exist anymore, I won't be able to do simple things, like take a shower, listen to music, twist a doorknob.
That's my routine. My life.

Things to People:

1. Watching you go through things while I’m useless and unable to actually help hurts more than ever.

2. I wish I could hear your voice once more. I wish I could see you smile one more time.

3. Talking to you is like a drug. Gratifying at first, then comes the addiction, then comes the consequences.

Confessions:

I post so many photos, take so many pictures. I feel narcissistic and conceited and unworthy every single time I look at them.

I’m not who I was last year.

Things happen, people change, ideas morph, images waver. Life is a maybe.

This is my life.
And I'm not who I want to be.

This is my life.
And I'm not who I thought I'd be.

This is my life.
And I don't know who I am.

This is my life.
But I'm not really living it.

Written on a Cardboard Back of a Notebook During a Boring Class

Light sunbeams shine through the dirty blinds, falling on sparse pieces of paper. A figure stirs in the darkness and shushs the whispering limbs of plants near the window. The figure gathered up the scattered sheets, sighing as it went. The blinds were pulled up roughly; the window gently pushed open to let a cool breeze flutter in. The figure becomes a silhouette as it lowers itself wearily down to rest on the sill of the window. A feminine outline becomes prominent as the sun rises higher in the sky. Tears silently slid down her face, dripping to stain her hands wet with sorrow. After an hour or so she sighed, wearily drew herself up and went to face the day.

The tenses are all messed up and mixed, but this is it, in it's purest most unedited form.