Diary entry: December 16, 2019

I am obsessed with beauty and I think this has exponentially fueled my fear of decay. I am increasingly anxious about growing old and fading into un-importance, of failing to build anything that can last. Of failing to be bigger than myself and bigger than others’ perceptions of me. Of failing to leave my mark on the world. Of failing to create anything other than superficial. This is not what I want for my life. I want to pour my efforts into my own happiness and simple pleasures, but I am afraid of wasting too much energy not creating. I want to indulge but not spoil. I am afraid because aesthetic beauty ages and sags and flakes away and amounts to nothing, nothing, if you have nothing else to show for the years you’ve lived. I am afraid of efforts wasted. Of caring too much about the wrong things. Of waste, waste, waste. Buying something pretty, then throwing it away. Being valued as pretty, then thrown away when I start to age and sag and flake away. Afraid of being defined by who I am, not what I can do. Of being defined. Of being obsessed with being defined. Of being defined by the wrong things.

Of decay. Of waste. Of the terrible truth that nothing lasts.

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