Better Things Ahead?

I realise I only ever come here when I am sad and to dish out my sorrows in the form of cryptic poems and prose, but tonight I have nicer things to write about. Well, I just got an email telling me that I've been invited for an interview at Oxford University. It's quite another feeling when one of the best schools in the world tells you "hey, we think you're good enough to get a fighting chance at being here." I am still in quite a detached state, this feels surreal, it is great news, I know.

I can't quite get the part of my mind that panicks about everything to slow down and stop telling me "GO READ THE BOOKS ON THE READING LIST"
"GO SET UP PRACTISE INTERVIEWS"
"GO REVIEW THE THINGS YOU LEARNT ABOUT ON YOUR INTERNSHIP"
and let me enjoy the moment a little bit more before I start having my anxiety attacks.

I hope it goes well, I hope I enjoy my first time in Europe. I also hope I can walk without crutches by then, it would be a great inconvenience if I had to take them on a flight across the world with me.

Things might just be looking up, because I've found a new island to swim to in the ocean and it's closer than the other one.

A lot of the times I think I'm not pretty, but then I also think about how it shouldn't matter that much to people who matter.

A Dream Like Many Others

I close my eyes and see

I'm on the beach by the bay

The waves are cool and strong

I walk into them without a second thought

The water reaches my waist

The water reaches my chest

The water reaches my neck

Now my head too, all underwater

I keep walking, the sand is all soft

I don't bother breathing 

I know I cannot

The walking continues on 

I choke and I stop, short

But I don't try to get up, not even a little 

I fight it, I stay, I swallow water.

I know when it all goes dark 

and I'm done

My body will make its way up.

My existence is an inconvenience.

I am very confused about a lot of things and I change my mind often. But the one thing that has been constant is my want to leave. It rarely involves a specific location, or rather the location is nowhere but an ended existence.

When I write a poem or anything like that I just write it, and then I read it over again and think: wow that was really fucking dramatic. What is wrong with me? I need to stop being so fucking dramatic.

I can't even validate my own feelings and that is fucking sad. I feel sorry for myself, and sorry for how much I hate myself and how I never give myself enough.

I get lonely a lot but  I think about how I should stay lonely. Because no one needs to deal with the fucked up bullshit I drag along with me, that seems to come from nothing. I don't think anyone would understand, and I don't want to have to make someone understand because it's dark and I don't need to turn off the lights in someone else's life just because mine are turned off. Even if someone else did understand, it would mean that they have all of their own shit to deal with and I couldn't possibly want to give them all my shit too; it wouldn't be good for anymore. I think about how I should keep to myself because I think about leaving too much, and if I leave I want to leave as clean as possible. I mean I shouldn't try to tell anyone about the things that are hard to say, the things that latch on in my trachea and can't make their way out, there are reasons they're hard to say.