if i fell, would i even make a sound?

Lately I've felt more of a need to read blogs every day and to blog more, because high school makes me unfathomably sad and sometimes, during a class, the weight of this unhappiness bears down on me so much that I come incredibly close to just running out of the room and out of the building. I feel so happy when I come home; before, in middle school, it was simply a routine marker of the end of the day, but now it feels like the only space where I feel sane. It's funny that I feel like blogging is more of a release now that I have even less time for it, but without it, I wouldn't have a space of my own anymore that I could still share without feeling like my words had to go through a filter first. Too many people that I know, too many people from school who know me and see me every day read my Rookie diaries. I don't know what to do. It may seem odd that something so public could feel so private to me, but I really do treat each and every one as a diary, as a sanctuary to my feelings. 

I don't like my high school at all. The only place there where I feel at the peak of my joy is philosophy club, talking about mortality and hedonism while lying on tables with upperclassmen and eating. It's one of the most beautiful, safest spaces that I've ever been in. Everything else makes me tear up-the people, the fact that I am still an introvert, the work, the way everything piles up, the lack of sleep. I spend every class period writing poems and daydreaming about studying abroad in France. I want to do this next year, and I know it will probably not happen, but it keeps me from wanting to break down in the middle of a lesson about conjugations in Latin class. 

I don't want to talk about this too much, but I think I found someone who understands me, who cares about what I have to say, for once. This person doesn't go to my school, and doesn't know any of my friends, yet oddly enough, they have managed to do what they seem to do with most great things in my life: they've killed it a bit, allowed it to wither away in their hands. I sound terrible talking about them like this, because I love them, I really, really do, but this is such a frequent issue in my life that if I don't write about it, it's going to sit gently on my rib cage, growing and growing until one day it just explodes. It hurts so much to think about. Crying makes it all better because I don't have to hold everything in. There's only so much one person can take.

Anyway, onward to the point of the post. I've been reading Just Kids by Patti Smith and actually using my journal for once-it's new, so that makes it easier for me to want to fill up-and wanting to dress a certain way that embodies the spirit of that time (the late '60s so far) and the beatnik movement. Patti herself is such a great example; she shifts from different planes, feminine to androgynous, and sometimes just in-between, an undefined place that for me is almost the epitome of that that movement. I made a shift from what you're used to seeing me dress like to  a more eccentric type to a more morbid/darker style, and now I am in-between that last type of dressing and a Patti-esque/beatnik way, with occasional outfits of the second kind. I don't feel as content as I could with it, so maybe I have to find different ways of going about it. I'll post some pictures tomorrow, but for now there's a moodboard that I made at the beginning of this post that you can use as a reference. 

It's almost 1:30 and I have school tomorrow and everything sucks, but this made me feel a bit better even though I'm tired and essentially don't have a life anymore. Oy.