“If you give me the slightest hint of abandonment and withdrawal, I would outdo you.”

Trust me to disappear easily, master of leaving. I didn’t abandon this blog. I’m struggling with those burning questions I always have more time to think of in this Mediterranean heat.

The Slightest Hint of Abandonment - a blog post on My Little Hawk


If I’m being honest with you, I don’t know what’s going on. My life lately consists of anger, weariness, wasting time on social media, and dissatisfaction. Oh, and dreaming of summer. I’ve never had one. It would be nice to have a glimpse of that vacation, carefree vibe people on the Internet have while they’re in my country. It’s a bit sad to think about how they experience my country more fully than me.

What makes me sad, actually, is how clenched and confined I am. It’s laughable. Somebody superglued my chrysalis, and I cannot get out. I’m running out of space, and the air is thinner, and I would soon suffocate if I didn’t learn to hold my breath.

It’s so easy to abandon myself in the summer. We did glorify the season, after all. It’s too bright outside not the notice the loneliness. Somebody’s words might have been my own: “I was growing less and less attached to life. If I kept going, I thought, I’d disappear completely, then reappear in some new form. This was my hope. This was the dream.”

The Slightest Hint of Abandonment - a blog post on My Little Hawk


I don’t know what I’m saying, dear screen. I’m thinking in sadness. Lately, I’ve been sharing glimpses of that sadness, but I never confronted the source. I’m scared, and it makes me angry. I want a simple life, an okay and quiet summer wearing what I want, going to the beach at least once, maybe going to get pizza with somebody, and not thinking about the bad things.

I’m tired of the support that comes from nowhere, and I have to feed on it because that’s all I’m ever going to get. There’s a story brewing in me, some words I need to spit out. If only I weren’t raised to be too polite to do it.

There’s a scream building in me. I’ve been biting my tongue for so long that my whole world could soon turn into a rage room. I don’t want to be unkind, but I am angry. Can this be considered a cry for help? If so, I’ve been doing it since forever, but I don’t think it’s working.

“I have a very childlike rage, and a very childlike loneliness.”


The things that make me happy make a list in the notebook I no longer use, and the items on the list are hypotheses. I think they would make me happy, but I wouldn’t know. It’s so sad that all that lies in the hands of a singular personified issue.

I’m angry. I’m angry. I’m angry. I’m also superstitious. I don’t like to repeat anything three times lest I invite it upon me. But since this anger’s been sitting on my chest for so long, I feel like that cheats the rule. I need to say it. It’s best to call our emotions for what they are.

I’m dehydrated, and I’ve been reading other people’s art on the Internet. If only I could at least make my problems beautiful. I would at least have something beautiful.

“I cannot bring myself to confess that I am lonely because if I say it out loud, any attention after echoes of false pity. Instead I cower in the quiet of my room and let the unbearable feeling knock the breath from my lungs. I grasp for something that is just out of reach. I’m sick and tired of writing about loneliness but rarely do I identify with anything else.”

Please accept this as my lousy comeback to blogging. I get back once more, never better.

The Slightest Hint of Abandonment - a blog post on My Little Hawk

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