I’ve found that I am ill-prepared for tragedy—whether big or small. My brain stops functioning and my throat seizes up and all my frail body could do is call someone—anyone—to tell me what to do.

I’ve found that I am useless and panicked and overcome with ferocious emotion that logic absolutely escapes me. I’ve found that I easily break under the stress of keeping my feelings inside my ribcage in fear of uncovering my own weakness, in fear of sharing too much, in fear that there are worse things to worry about (because there always is).

I’ve found that I am not as strong and independent as I want to be. I am weak and I am fragile and I cling onto others to tell me that I am none of these things, because I am also spoiled and impulsive and take most things for granted.

I’ve found that I don’t want to be alone, can never be alone, and all I want is for the people I share this life with to share it with me until the end of my days because if I am going into the dark on my own, I want to spend every waking moment surrounded by heads and bodies and love, so much love.