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• My Life As Myself •

The creator of this blog is currently trying to be a proper adult. Here, they try to figure out life through photography, writing, music and the occasional existential crisis. Enjoy.

• My Life As Myself •

The creator of this blog is currently trying to be a proper adult. Here, they try to figure out life through photography, writing, music and the occasional existential crisis. Enjoy.

The World In-between: Mr. November

There was this boy. And in this strange sad world, how is he different from any other person you’ve ever met?

That is not for me to judge, this is one story in-between all of those others.

And, to be fair, he was not that little, nor that young, most times. I guess he was never really a boy; there had been no time or place for that in past times.

But he didn’t really regret that; weirdly enough, it all felt the same to him. He supposed he was born far too old and time was giving him the days, one at a time, so he could connect them and finish the puzzle of his own self.

It was fun, usually, being the oldest mind in a room of puberty reeking bodies. That was, when his head was too busy figuring them out because, when he thought, really thought about the meaning of the action itself, what gave him that possibility, it felt like drowning in your own bathtub, the one you filled with all the negative remarks (most of them coming from your own head) and the memories that you “forgot”.

Nobody he’d ever met was that weird. No one seemed to be, not at that level, anyway.

Yes, there were levels. He had to classify everything and there were different levels, of course. Being that the lowest would be a hint of quirkiness, perhaps; and the highest? Just one of those lunatics at a madhouse, I’m guessing…but wouldn’t that be a disease?

He wondered a lot, and came to the conclusion that maybe he was the best example of the worst kind of weird. The ones that think, and think some more, try to make something out of anything and everything restlessly; and, let me tell you, locations, objects and faces are too much too bare if you have to focus on someone’s words. The world always seemed to be too generous to him when it came to realization, and people chose to see it like he didn’t care for what they had to say.

No one could understand, at least not someone whose level of weirdness didn’t meet his own. 

 

(...)

 

 

Love & Old Fashioned Pens,

TheBassGirl-182

 

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