I Often Mistake my Fake Eyelashes for Bugs
musings on suicide, girlhood, god, beauty, and the aestheticization of ones own suffering
It is the ghost that haunts me. One I am unable to shake. The endless wails penetrate my soul, no matter how far I run. No matter where in the world I go. I pray for an exorcism. It is my birthday and I can’t help but feel as though my shadow is the grim reaper.
An excerpt from my journal
Content warning: Suicide, depression
You sit on the cusp of girlhood and womanhood. Eagerly anticipating the moment when maybe you’ll finally feel like an adult instead of a frightened child, though scared of the innocence that will be lost when you do. Your 20s are the most haunting years yet because it is when you suddenly become enlightened to the reality of fleeting youth. In childhood you are too consumed by the present moment to be concerned, car rides seem to last years, and summer seems like a never ending labyrinth, and all you want to do is grow up. When you’re a teenager you’re invincible, you’ll never age. Though you dichotomously believe you’ll never see your 20th birthday anyways. Your 20s are when you begin to notice how quick the passing of time truly is. The neighbourhood children, your nephews and nieces, the kid you babysat, are suddenly teenagers and you come to understand all those times when adults would gawk at you throughout your adolescence, proclaiming with wide eyes how much you’ve grown. You feel corny proclaiming the same, and so you don’t, but you can’t help but think it when the children you once knew are no longer children anymore. And you’re not sure when it happened, but you realize that you yourself likewise must not be a child anymore.
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