dark little boxes

7 Feb

I’m scrolling through Tumblr looking for strangers my age to read my severely unedited ramblings or to write something too-personal that I might understand, but there are so many sixteen year-old girls with papers due on Monday/shopping mall mishaps/boyfriend probz that feel a lot more separate from me than I ever thought they would. Who am I anymore that I think their stories are small and unimportant in the grand scheme of things? When did I think I’d figured out the grand scheme of things? Because I haven’t, really. Mostly, I think I’m still really young. Seventeen, maybe. Nineteen. And I guess if I read about them one at a time, like, if instead of searching the #personal tag and having twenty different teenage rants explode across my screen there was one blog maybe, a seventeen year-old Oregonian with chronic nice-face and snarky undertones, I could read about Jeff from school who borrowed four pens and seems to be, like, romantically interested-ish, but is publicly obsessed with Elise, and really get it. But the way things are, the way they’ve been especially in the past week, the world seems to want me alone and misunderstood for no reason at all. And they’re all there, too. So there must be walls, right? There are walls to keep us apart, to keep us separated and frustrated and sick of everything. And I probably won’t go busting them down, but I’ll know they’re there, and I think that’s a nice start.


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