To: Myself
Dec 21, 2018.
You know? This place seems so familiar to me. The dull settings. The prude rain. This city, this town. These people. They consumed my years. I'm "home". Before this place was home, 81750 was home. I remember tar hills and bats in the ceiling like it was yesterday I was leaning my shoulders in the maroon bath tub.
I know none of those place are "home" anymore. I don't feel belonged to either. To be quite honest, I don't even know if I am still me from those days of consciousness. Soon, it would be my last digit 1 of my years on this world. Fatehah. Inception. Nurul. Light. I don't feel it in my bones. Perhaps because I'm a machine, running digits, flashing:
01110100 01101001 01110010 01100101 01100100
If my life's a binary, after 1 is 0, or 1, and after 0 is 1, or 0. Two definite. After surviving, is death, maybe another life to survive. After death, is a life, maybe yet another death. I am tired.
I'm finishing digit 1 soon. At this point, I don't even know what and who I'm writing for. All I know even this forest isn't home ultimately. For now I'll feel like I am present here. This small confinement with these people. I even got a toilet the same maroon tiles as my old home, but it's all temporary. I am outgrowing my friends. I've forgotten the promises I made to myself when I was 15. I've discarded everything I swore I'd hold on to.
I don't understand why December is always painful for me. But here. Cheers to almost 19. I will tell everyone it's alright. I'll act right. For once, I want a December that isn't all about me struggling. I'll tell everyone I'm okay for Christmas. I'll brush everything off. I'll say I'm fine. I'll make it so true you won't doubt me.
