I probably should have specified that the previous entry didn’t spell the literal end of this journal, despite it very much spelling the end of everything else.
“So, where do you go from here?”
“What happens next?” a question I’ve been asked a hundred times over from a hun— well, more like a dozen people—I don’t have that many friends.
“I don’t know,” I’ve sometimes replied in moments of unfiltered honesty because truth be told I’ve never been sure.
I’m still not sure.
It doesn’t feel like I’m allowed to be not sure.
For the sake of myself and all the people around me, I constantly feel like I’m supposed to know, I’m supposed to be sure.
But I don’t.
I don’t have all the answers.
Sometimes, I don’t even have the question yet.
And it’s one thing reassembling yourself without a blueprint. It’s another thing trying to do it when some of the parts are missing.
At least the ticking has stopped.
And I know what to do next time it rears its dark and disfigured head.
Some days you just have to be happy for that, because being angry all day every day is draining as fuck. It bleeds all the beauty out of life.
Carlos 1, Demons 0.
I don’t really know where to go from here.
At least not yet.
And until I do, instead of always asking me, “What I’m going to do?” How about just giving me a hug. I happen to really like hugs.
No creepy hugs though, and if you have to ask what constitutes a creepy hug, well, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you but it’s very likely all of your hugs are the creepy kind.