I don't really understand why people find my life so interesting, because to me it's insignificant, unimportant. I write this to vent, to document the aspects of my life. I never expected to get followers, particularly not ones that momentarily change my life and yet that is what has happened.
I hate to say it, but if I hadn't have had so much support last year then I wouldn't have made it this far. For that I'm truly grateful, but it makes me wonder why so many people put in the effort to save me when they don't even know who I am.
For all the people that I haven't met, I'm purely some typed up words.
This is really all I am, and yet you put in so much effort to keep me going. That both amazes and confounds me.
I told Mariana that I felt insignificant, that my blog was meaningless. She's a person that I became infinitely close with because of these posts. She said that I shouldn't feel like that because I write about what it means to be alive, to be human. I focus on things people are afraid to talk about, important things according to her. She says I have changed her perspectives on life and to have that kind of influence is fantastic.
And so these are the times when I wish I wasn't british.
When I hate sleeping alone in my single bed.
When staring at my computer feels inadequate because I want something much more real.
I wish everybody could just understand for once.
Maybe see how far I've developed from this time last year and reward me with a trip to Sweden.
Because I want that very much.
I do not want to stay on the other side of the world, wishing, wanting so desperately and wasting time. Knowing that as every day passes, I become less mysterious, less interesting, less appealing. I become weaker, and it worries me that I won't be wanted anymore. I'll purely be a memory.
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