due to the death of my phone, I have been:

reading
finding out what it means to un-idealise someone
sleeping

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It is so tiring to answer questions about how life is, what I am doing at the moment, where I'm going to school, what my plans are for the future, where I see myself next year. Good God, is life all about that? Why doesn't anybody bother asking me what I had for dinner last night, when was the last time I felt happy, the last time someone took my breath away, what the air smells like after it rains? Is it too much to ask for a conversation where I don't have to churn out the same answers in different variations?

I keep looking to the next year as a form of escape, maybe it will be, maybe it won't. Maybe it'll just be one big step into disappointment, and I'll just be right back at square one. Imagining would-be futures is just about the most interesting thing that could happen to me at this point in time and it still doesn't quite feel right. I keep dreaming about parallel universes where a different me lives out another orchestrated life, and I keep escaping to those. Anything but this.

I feel like I'm just mulling over the same issues over and over and over and the frustration seeps out my fingetips, typing keys - backspace, backspace, backspace. How is it possible 26 alphabets still can't help me articulate how I feel. Why must we feel things. What good does that do. I hate this.