1 a.m. in los angeles

I am sitting on a bus, watching with tired eyes as the lights of LAX fade off in the distance only to be replaced with brighter lights of the city ahead. It is one in the morning and my eyelids are heavy but my hands are shaking and my mind is grinding, spinning like a wheel. My body is so tired I cannot even reach into my backpack for my notebook and so I pull out my phone and now here I am, writing this.

It’s as if every thought that flows through my brain will disappear forever and I cannot possibly live with that truth. My thoughts are like the people in my life: I hold onto them as tight as I can, even when I no longer need them, even when they fill my soul with nothing but negative energy. And so I write each one down wherever I can; in the pages of my notebook, on my locked phone notes, on napkins from restaurants, tucked into the faded pockets of my jeans.

I don’t know why my mind doesn’t stop. Perhaps it is constantly grinding, trying to find an explanation for the way I am, the way the world is, the way everyone else is and I feel I am not. All I know is that my poor mind has not stopped spinning for the past seventeen odd years. I believe the day I die will be the day I find the explanation my mind is searching for.

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