I’ve typed and erased so many sentences.
I’ve typed. I’ve erased.
There were even two full paragraphs — gone.

What I have to say doesn’t feel like it means anything. Maybe that’s why I keep deleting it.

But isn’t that what writing is sometimes? A conversation between the parts of myself that want to be seen and the parts that want to hide.

What does it mean to feel seen? To be noticed and appreciated — not for what I can do, or what I’m capable of, but for the tiny things that seem insignificant. What are those tiny things? Ugh, who knows.

Maybe I’m putting too many rules on myself. Maybe that’s why this feels forced. Or maybe this messy, erased, half-finished version is the most authentic thing I can offer right now.

I absolutely fucking hate how much I want to be in a relationship, or at least the idea of what I believe a relationship would look like with me in it. Do I have a crush on everyone? Yes. And what I mean by that is I find cuteness in literally everyone. I even had a crush on a homeless guy with no teeth. He smelled pretty bad, but he had such pretty eyes, and when he smiled — you could tell he loved to. Ugh. I love noticing that. His name was Tracy.

Does that make me desperate? Maybe. Or maybe I’m just someone who notices the smallest sparks in people, and all I want is to feel that same kind of spark for myself. Sometimes I wish I could hit reset — die to the old version of me, the love I thought I wanted or needed, and start over.

I wish I could stop walking around with my heart cut open and stitched to the sleeve of my arm. Do I even walk around like that? Lol — or am I just overanalyzing myself to the point of suffering?

Blah.

I want to erase my mind. Can I order an Eternal Sunshine, please?