The Problem Is

I do step outside of myself for more than ten minutes.
I do pass the boundaries, and my mind it too broad to be healthy.

If you knew anything at all
maybe you'd realize that none of this is because I give a shit about my body.
None of this is because I'm shallow, or even vain, or unintellectual.

It's all because everything is so goddamn beautiful.
And I'm trapped within the walls of repetition
and within the walls of forced society made garbage
when all i really want to do
is run away
so i can lay in the hugest fucking sunny field you've ever seen.

On Saturday
I layed beneath a willow tree and cried
because it was so beautiful, it practically melted my heart.

I self destruct because I go crazy
trying to get to those places
where I can just escape without having somebody down my throat or up my ass. I feel empty without it all. I have been given a gift with sight, and scent, and audio, and taste, and when none of it is being stimulated, because the places I am forced to be are so ignorant to the genuine naturalistic beauties of life, I have to stimulte myself. I'm a walking fucking metaphor. Maybe I'm psychotic, and maybe it's crazy. But it's the only thing that'll fill that goddamn empty spot in me, you stupid bitch. And I don't get rid of everything because I want control. I get rid of it, because it's the one thing I can do. I can get rid of all of the thoughts of entrapment in my head, because when IT all comes out, all of my thoughts come out too, and I feel better. You talk about things like they're facts, and the thing is, nothing is fact.If you lived my life, maybe you'd understand how much guilt I go through every mother fucking day. Guilt that I can't just stop worrying. Guilt that I'm not constantly greatful that I can do nothing other than SEE. Guilt that I'm not happy just knowing that I can comprehend. Because believe you me, every single day, it astounds me, and I smile, because I don't know how I got to be so lucky. Guilty that I even dislike myself because it's selfish. But it goes back to what you said. You can't care about anybody else as much as you care about yourself.

Even though I think I should be above it (which I also feel guilty about), I'm not. And since I can't see all the beauty of the world; since I'm trapped inside my house and sheilded from the outdoors
I need to find a purpose elsewhere. But I don't have anything to be proud of.
I want to be the beauty in the world that I can't see
because I'm not allowed to just escape, and lay in my yard underneath the sun.

Don't you dare talk about this like you understand any of it.
You don't understand me.
I don't understand you.
Human beings can never understand each other.

You place judgement.
And you have no right too.
I don't think about things on a worldly scale stupid.
I think of them
on a fucking existential scale.
And that's part of what fuels the hate I have for myself.

BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW WHY I CAN'T BE JUST HAPPY TO EXIST.

Maybe my mother's right. Maybe I need fucking lithium.
I never want to talk to you again.
I hate how you write like you're wise, or epic.
The difference between you and me
is that I can't know if I can ever know a thing.
I know that significance, and "shoulds" could be relative, and impossible
and that all of this logic, and your logic, and everyone's logic, maybe or may not mean nothing.

Understanding the known size of the unizerse alone, which is only a mere fraction of the size of existence
helps me to realize
that in scale to me, I am tiny.
But that doesn't make me feel sad. It makes me feel fucking lucky.

If I've said it once
i've said it a million fucking times.
I have it in my head
that EVER thinking about myself is wrong.

Even though I understand it's human nature
I just don't want to be naive
or to somehow gain the idea
that I am more important than anybody else.
Because I'm not.

Even you.
Even though, I think I might hate you more than any other girl that ever lived to see the light of day.
Because you belittle me, and talk down to me like you're enlightened on a plain that I am not.
No one is more enlightened than anybody else though.
Or maybe they are.
But assumptions make an ass out of you and me.