amor fati

its funny. maybe i should stop at this. it's funny. the end. thanks for writing, thanks for reading, au revoir. but obstinately stubborn, i wont stop at that and i will say whats funny, just to make a point. cause it isnt. what's funny is that although i maybe dont remember clearly what i was doing some months ago on any given day, i have the "minutes" of this night, some years ago. and when i say some i mean seven. i even have that diary entry, in some old, dusty, mum read notebook. even the poem analysis or essay i was doing that night for school, of morgenstimmung, which funnily enough (again funny doesnt really have any humor, but some bitter ironies) means morning mood. what i remember the most is that feeling of emptiness, happy me became hollow me, i think thats when i grew up 10 years so i instantly stopped liking leonardo di caprio. or maybe this is an attempted joke.

so who cares in the end, life goes on, we move on, time, flies, summer, winter and wam bam 7 years go by. no thanks, mam. like i have a choice! but i still obstinately stubborn say no thanks mam, i can build character some other way. i dont need to grow up. and i havent, somehow. i grew up biologically, i got over it socially, but something is still wrong, my arm is still missing, or is it my heart, or my brain, or my lungs. i dont want conversation, empathy or sympathy. i want to keep my memories.

i'm the only one not not looking, but the only one understanding.
yellow moon is growing cold.