Sleepless night

It's sad that we live in a world that mistakes memory with brightness. It is only reading about a civilization of prodigies that I realize I myself am not as bright and smart as the world's let me to think.

It's because this world values memory and repetition that I'm considered clever. It's because I'm a fast-learner and master the little things. But nobody ever pushed me into solving harder problems. Our teachers are not there to give children extra work, they are not there to challenge us, and so we don't develop. We get bored and find our own things to work on. Alone, mostly. I found books, writing. Eventually I found languages. My so called intelligence is exclusively based on letters. Other children found sports. Or music. Or art. Or math. Or science. And these are our geniuses. But I am not a genius. I'm just a fast-learner with too good a memory and socially awkward.

So our world values memory more than anything. And so children like me are told everyday that they're bright and geniuses and perfect. but we are not pushed, not helped. And we believe it. And we slack off. And we give in to pressure eventually. And above all, we are not helped.

I've come to believe a little more focus on individuals would be good society, but there is no time. I've come to believe that a little more concern for everybody's mental health would solve everything. Because our minds are dangerous and unexplored and ignored.

I am terrified of my mind. It goes too fast. It rants. In different languages, in different ways. Sometimes not even my hands can keep up with it. I've been wanting to ask for a psychologist for weeks, months, years, but I hate the idea that it'd make me weak in the eyes of others and I hate myself for listening to that idea. When my mind is fast, too fast for me to sleep, I need the music to make the thoughts stop.

Somehow I just want to blame the world, blame society for all the wrong that's been done to me and that could've been helped. But it wasn't helped. And here I am. Listening to what ifs and long lost possibilities. Ranting on and on.

And in the end, all of this made me the person I am today. It made me the struggler who never surrenders and who puts everything onto paper. It made me this teenage girl who's seen too much for her age (where first-world problems are concerned anyway, which makes me hate myself a little more for all of the self-pity). This teenage girl who thinks like a grown-up because she has to, because she has no other choice, because long ago something happened that blew her childhood away.

All of this made me the girl who cries and bleeds words that one day might be poetry. Everything has to be on paper.

I'm back to ranting. I'm back to missing bodies To missing the embrace at night. I'm back to missing what's familiar. I'm back to missing love. And I am glad to say that I don't miss Him. Nostalgia ended it. Finally.

But still. I'm back to missing bodies. And I'm scared I'll do something stupid and go back to the familiar faces who I feel so comfortable around. I might kiss one of them. Not one at random. The one I miss the most. The one I love a little bit more profoundly. The one I would destroy if I came back to him. I can't do that to him. And still, when we're together my body just wants to surrender. And I feel his body wants to too. And we're there, touching just so slightly and screaming inside our heads not to give in. Because if one of us does, then the other one might too. And we would only hurt each other. Most likely I would hurt him. And I promised myself I wouldn't do it again.

And so here I am. Writing about it because it is my only way out. I can't let myself fall for anyone this time around. Not even the sweet boy who I am starting to like. Not even him, who I love and cherish. Not even those who I am madly attracted to. Not anyone. Not this time.