chaoticessentia

today is the deadline i gave to myself.

i never imagined i would read myself. not me now. the me that once wrote about paradise lost, about satan building a philosophy from his own wound, about emma who was too hard to understand because she was too easy to make happy. reading it felt like opening a closet i had never opened myself. there was something strange. not because the writing felt foreign — but because it felt all too familiar. the sentence structures were still the same, the tendency to dissect something to its fundamental structures and then decide whether it was worthy of trust — that was still there. the way to place distance between yourself and emotions, as if observation were a shield — that too was still there. but there was something different. the old me wrote as if building a fortress. every sentence was a brick, every argument was a wall. i wrote to prove that i understood, even though what i understood was emptiness. i knew exactly what i suspected, but did not know what i felt. i could dissect mil...