10 years later.
I haven't been here in ages. I'm 28 now, last time I wrote anything here I was 15. But I've never felt closer to the person I was back then, or atleast I aspire to. I had such a vivid idea of life. I think she'd be happy with my life if she read about it in headlines. I became one of the bittersweet characters I was fascinated with in every novel. But I don't feel that wild flame of rebellion they exuded. I always feel my feet tied to and weighed down by rocks. I experience life in fleeting short bursts of lucidity. Something happened along these years. Some weird veil was placed around me. A heavy fog thickening the air, casting a blur effect on everything I feel and experience. Like being locked in a humid smoke filled room with a dozen people recycling their warm stale breath. Sometimes a window cracks open and a light breeze sneaks in and I'm pulled back to myself. It just doesn't feel real. That's why I plaster my face to the one window in my apartment every morning, so the warm sun can force me to see that it's a new day, that things can be bright and vivid, that life still happens... inspite of my comatose perception.
