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2022-10-01 / 9:51 a.m. I want to leave the house. I want to move more. I want to make more. I want to feel more valuable. I want to do something that makes sense, that makes it feel like I belong here and that I’m doing exactly what I was made to do. I want to one day not be so lonely. I want it to feel natural to talk to strangers. To feel necessary to talk to friends. I want to exist with such a fervour, such a quiet, content energy that I actually want to be here. I want. I want. I want. I want as if there’s nothing else to be done for it, nothing else to be said for it. I want with a desperation that makes me swear I’d do anything. And yet, I don’t do anything. I lie on my bed in a way that hurts my spine, and I think about how I should move, and count down in my head five four three two one, saying that I’ll move and do something, anything, when I get to zero, but zero comes and I tell myself that that one didn’t count. And so I go again, and again, and again, but time passes as though it belongs to somebody else. |