2:43am, Nothing Is Okay
This is Clementine.
I don’t have the slightest fucking idea how any of the rest of me is okay. How anyone can be focusing on cleaning out the closet, or planning out charm bracelets, or the parent we live with acting like shit is normal.
People are dying. The internet might be dying in pursuit of making people’s lives worse and harder, if not outright as part of their quest to kill more people.
I want to write so bad in case I don’t have much longer to do it, and I can’t fucking focus. I can’t fucking stand it. My heart pounds and I shake and the world is at the end of a tube.
I’m right back here, wondering if I’m alive just to suffer. Not the worst, I objectively do not have the most difficult life ever lived, but it has been difficult, usually in ways the vast majority of people around me can’t relate to. And in a way, it’s horrifying, because, I’M LUCKY? THIS IS WHAT IT IS TO BE LUCKY?
I see the news and feel sick. They dropped Tomahawk missiles on a fucking school. They made the sky fucking black. Here, they're building as many concentration camps as they can. They're killing innocent people here and far. And they want to make it to where no one can talk about it. That’s what they want.
I hate this.