Nothing works. Nothing. Ever. Works.
It's getting bigger. Bloated. Flattened. Flattened. Bloated. Bloated. Flattened. Bloated. Flattened. Bloat...
Like a ticking-time bomb. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-to...
I'm 21 years old. And I started to count the days I'll live. Yes. This discomfort has been my company ever since I hit puberty.
21 years old. Feel like 80s or 90s.
LOL.
My mind has been roaming all the possibilities. All the wh-questions.
Somehow, a voice or an intuition of mine is telling me that this is a critical stage. Watching my ticking-time bomb, it worries me. Depresses me.
Taking a toll on me. Can't feel when I'm hungry. Breath hardly. Can't slouch.
It could be so huge sometimes I thought at any given moment, the bomb will goes off.
I'd be done.
I appreciate all the supports my mom gave me. She tried.
Except meds. Yes. No meds.
Maybe I should get my will written. Make some confessions. Treat everyone even.
Eat. Pray. Love.
Meditate in peace. Just in case, I get my second chance.