12:46pm, 30 September 2025, sat at my not-so-usual cafe off 37th. Littered with pretension, and the best goddamn matcha I’ve ever had in my life
Summer is slipping away and it is the most painful goodbye. I’ve never been one to be good at goodbyes, but this is the hardest of them all. With summer came the sweetest gifts and I am consumed with fear that, as summer leaves, so will they. Is anything really romantic when the air is not sweet and the sun is not hot? Or am I just a pessimist? Over romanticization, perhaps. Ruins us all.
Stumbled out of the corner bar last night after picking a fight with the one I love oh-so-dearly. Blamed it on the “Fire I have inside me,” or whatever people used to say to me when I was a little girl. Depressing, really, that I’ve always been like this. Argued about nothingness until it became something-ness and until I was weeping. Begged to stop and to be loved again. Had forgotten what the whole goddamn argument was about. Or if it really was about anything at all or just my inability for contentment. My utter lack of happiness and that damn fire inside of me. Regardless, I’m drunk after a-couple-too-many-beers on a dim street outside of a random bar in Culver City that felt as if we entered another world or dimension or time period and that fire is getting bigger and I wonder how I got there. How I got here.
“Is it better to speak or to die,” some of the most infamous words ever written and ones that consume my thoughts as I drunkenly exit said dreary bar off the corner of whatever-and-who-the-fuck-cares. To speak or to die to speak or to die to speak or-
Called a taxi and on my way home I am still teary eyed watching the city of Los Angeles pass by me hazily and I am questioning the meaning of life and ultimately have an entire existential crisis in the back of that cab driving down 405 back to [redacted] and that quote haunts all of my thoughts. Echos through my mind over and over and over again. Is it better to speak or to die. Is it better to speak or to die? Right now I feel the latter. If only I could learn to shut-the-fuck-up (I’ve been told). But would I rather suffocate in my silence? Or perhaps silence is the comfortable option. People hate a vulnerable woman. People hate a-vulnerable-anyone. To speak is to be vulnerable and silence is death. Nobody wants the fire. The fight. Thoughts racing and rushing through my head as the cab driver pulls to a stop and I stand at the face of my quandary. To speak or to die to speak or to die to speak or-
Truthfully, I do not get my answer I am searching for. I stay sat and fading in existentialism and questions perhaps only for the highest of powers. What is better? ‘Cause to speak is to be vulnerable and to speak gets you in trouble and to speak might ruin lives including your (my) own but to die, well, the simple thought of sitting in the silence and the weight of words left unsaid is worse than death, really. God and I sit here pacing outside [Redacted’s] apartment and I simply cannot bring myself to go in because really, it’s going to kill me either way. Because that silly nothingness turned into quite a lot of something-ness and I spiraled all 37 minutes of the cab ride home and I am drunk and cannot put out this goddamn-fire. I stand outside for far too long that the neighbors likely think I am mad,
are they wrong?
To speak or to die to speak or to die to speak
or to die.
lifewithkayla 