A book made me cry.
There are little streaks of mascara on the cuffs at the end of the sleeves of my hoodie and each one represents an emotion I desperately try not to feel every day. In a self-created bubble where things like empathy and sadness and remorse are deflected into some other life, we breathe deeply the oversaturated air — filtered, leaving behind only coping mechanisms and a sense of entitlement.
Every once in a while, the bubble pops and I remember that this earth is a place where people love and feel and die and miss each other when they’re gone.
From time to time, I accidentally remember how to be alive.
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