The past may be a bit warped when visited.

It seems as though a mere seven or six months ago, I were a happier person. Perhaps I
was a bit lost, more incomplete, merely grasping at wisps of possibilities for a future in which I
successfully smothered the slimy, corrosive insecurities and sorrows that plagued me for as
long as I was able to think and to feel. Still, when I visit the days of late May and early June it
seems to be that life was a bit brighter, I was a bit more vibrant and a bit less melancholic. It
very well may be that I was, in fact, a lesser person than I am now, and the projection of that
time I am able to see is merely the result of several fragments of memories that were only good
because of the people that surrounded them. Perhaps those days weren’t good after all, simply
a touch less lonesome than the present.
Records and photographs are an excellent primary source for the days that one’s
memory threatens to obliterate with every passing day. I look at myself then and, I do look sad,
still. I look a bit more vibrant, energetic, and hopeful, with a certain light stirring in my eyes, but
that part hasn’t changed. When I look, I see a person younger than I am now with comparatively
stunted emotions, still clinging to the vestiges of a persona that never truly fit, like an undersized
pair of pants that pinches and squeezes, forcing flesh to spill out atop it. I see one who has not
yet felt love, only pale wisps of something resembling lust and terrified of being torn apart by the
weight of what could come of that.
While I do not know if all the pain and the struggle has been worth it, if one day I will
wistfully recall what screaming, blistering agony I went through as a means to cobble together a
life more wonderful than I can even hope for at the present. I do not know if this day is merely a
stitch in the weaving of an afghan of regretful memories. I can only hope that I am on a
fortuitous path, and instinct warns me that I am not. I will cling to this path and pray for a joyful
day down the line, but I wonder yet what led me to this moment.
It has been two weeks of nearly complete isolation, and I am sedated by melancholy. My
attempts to escape this heinous fog enshrouding my thoughts, pulsing with my every breath and
creeping ever deeper into my psyche, were spurned and kicked and thrown aside into the muck
to rot. I cannot help but wonder how it is I haven’t a single friend remaining who would reach out
to me without provocation. I am no longer able to resist the temptation, to spiral into the darkest
and most suffocating black pits of despair that have lurked in my mind for as long as I can recall
being cognizant. I can stave it off fine when in company of friends and my love, but alone I am a
miserable wretch consigned to rot in my solitude.
In a meager five days I will be seventeen years old, an unremarkable age but terrifying
nonetheless. It is expected that a seventeen year old girl should be out in the world, socializing
and mingling, enjoying the remains of her youth before being thrust into the cruel, heartless
clutches of adulthood forevermore. Yet I sit here and wallow in my melodrama, alone, nearly
friendless, and with no hope of escaping the labyrinth within my own thoughts that slowly eats
away at my ability to stay conscious. I wonder, often, how it is that so many are able to paint a
smile on their faces, their beautiful, flawless, plastic faces, how they are able to giggle and laugh
their shrill shrieks and participate in the shallow joys of being alive. Are they thoughtless? Am I
too thoughtful? Is it that I am damned to be outcast and exist on the fringes of my peers for as
long as I live? I am aware that this is extremely dramatic, and my life is good. I have a boyfriend
who makes time for me sometimes, I have parents who love each other and care about me, I
have a cat and plentiful food, clean water, clothing, a comfortable and rather lavish bed, and
quite a few luxuries. I care nothing for any of this. I could do without most everything I have, if I
had people who remembered my existence. I would be impervious to all of the melancholy if just
once, one time, one of my friends whom I have cherished since middle school would have
asked me if maybe I wanted to spend time together. If one person I cared about hadn’t flaked
out on my attempt to bring us all together again, to celebrate the beginning of a new year in
each others’ company and to act once more like a family, the way we did when we were young.
Perhaps I am a bit foolish, for wanting more than I have.