A Line Made by Walking

I am only ashamed of all the knowledge and ideas which passed me by while I was busy obsessing about circumferences; about a body I never even liked in the first place.

What is it about crying? As if my body believes that squeezing all its salt out might somehow quell the sadness. As if sadness is a parasite which suckles on sodium chloride.

Twenty-six is not significant in a good way. It’s the age at which I become irrevocably closer to thirty than twenty. I wake on the morning of my birthday, and think at once: now I know, with certainty, that it’s too late to be a genius.

And I felt like such a failure. I thought: I can’t even do mental illness properly.