I feel like in some ways I haven't changed much in the past four years - maybe I'm more hardened and detached from things that used to startle me, I've been through a lot of self-discovery only to find that some instinctual personality traits are still ingrained deeply in me. I'm unable to properly process emotional pain, always needing to chemically or physically alter myself so that I can see or feel it manifested in ways that I can describe.

In writing my new 'zine I started a piece about trivialities - the idea that someone else's pain is always greater, that all of the anguish that I've felt in the past few years is nothing compared to what some others have felt. That it could be considered ridiculous, self-indulgent, that I've let myself become so twisted inside about experiences that pale beside what others have seen. In some ways it is, I suppose. But I feel what I feel. I can't wish it away, I've tried so hard to overcome my crippling intensity, whether it's how quickly I fall for someone, how affected I am by the very idea of death, how violently my heart breaks. Yet still I always find myself in the same place, and seeing the same symbolism.

It's raining tonight. And it will rain tomorrow. I can't ignore the timing; it matches so perfectly with what's ravaging me inside. It's left me a mess, unattributable to any one thing - everything's just kind of crumbling away and after the catharsis I feel dull inside.

I've come to resent the night; it traps me indoors and I can't step out and feel the quickly cooling air seep through my clothes, my skin, and into my bones. At times like these I desperately miss the haven of Haverford, when the blanket of night was something soothing and safe, and my footsteps were slack and deliberate, not halfway frightened and brisk like they are in the city. I miss the smell of midnight dew, the yellow glow of streetlamps and the endless expanse of green.

If I could be anywhere but the city tonight-