my spacehell

"i am no bird; and no net ensnares me."

if only that were true of anyone outside a classic bildungsroman turned toxic romance. brontë was a hopeful bitch when she wrote that line, but i'm always the pessimist. i think we are all ensnared by something. our own steel-trap minds, the inexorable expectations of others, the thundering roar of an uncertain future barreling towards us. what ensnares me? what is my vice, my virture?

i always act like i know everything. like i understand the finite details of life inside my bubble of self-hatred and constant need. even the grandiosity of life outside it. i don't, i don't. maybe i'll find out, but it won't be now when i'm 19 and still learning how to live without the guilt of being alive. 

this is my second spacehey. got locked out of the first one. this time i'm going to be more honest with myself.

xx