The fourth dimension, Melbourne.

To the girl I was,

Hey it’s okay.

I’m trying to cry for you, and I want to but I can’t. It’s nothing on you. You’ve just grown so well that I can’t do anything but thank you for the decisions you made.

For the experiences you shared.

I can’t believe how far you’ve come. Do you remember crying for the girl you could’ve become but didn’t? You grieved heavily, I think.

And today I tried to cry for the girl I was, the girl I could’ve been. But I couldn’t.

It’s weird. And you’re good.

I feel quite faint thinking about where the year’s gone. But gone isn’t the right word. The year grows in you. And you grow in the year.

It’s like that Ocean Alley song that you love, ‘Happy Sad’. You’re choking on your overdose of happy. It’s so tantalising that any sadness is revelled in, almost welcomed. But it’s good. All is good.

There’s memories, and then there’s memories of hopes of what you could’ve had, could’ve become. But what you are is chaotic, and beautiful. Not in a pure sense. I can only be thankful. You made home within yourself.

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