Back in those days, I mistook being sad and somber for being different.
I felt like an individual. I painted my nails black. I wrote and cried to my xanga. I screamed and cried more. I shut the world out and listened to angry lyrics. I created friction with silence and miscommunication.
And then things were better, but it left my xanga empty. I couldn’t find my words because those words usually came from feelings– dark and heavy things that welled up in my eyes. I feared for who I am and who I defined myself to be, who I was and who I may end up becoming.
I wanted back into the typhoon of emotions I wallowed in. The tumultuous, familiar sting of madness.
I thought I was being different.
In retrospect, I’ve realized that being sad does not make you different, it makes you sad.