I've pretty much just accepted that this hell I live with inside my head is apart of me. That might sound a little "emo," but that's honestly not my intention. Honestly, it can be comforting sometimes, drifting in and out of this torturous abyss--I feel my writing (one of few things I'm genuinely passionate about) is stronger when suffering beneath, what I feel to be, a constant sense of pressure; it's like my soul (or being, essence, etc.) is trapped in some ethereal iron maiden. I hate it, but at times also kinda like it; maybe I'm just some mental masochist.
I also feel as though I'm more appreciative of the good things when they rear their beautiful faces. Looking for a melody in a flood of dissonance, and then latching, loving, pleading with the closest thing to resemble cadence. However fleeting, I revel in these moments like Tantalus if he had finally quenched his thirst.
But yeah, the majority of the time it's just... blaaaahh. I never enjoy (nor participate in) talking about myself in person, so I spill to you guys on occasion
The nights spent by myself (like tonight--yeah, Friday night alone... don't judge me) are the worst: I spend *hours* just trying to catch hold of some semblance of sleep, but it feels as though every faux pas, every minute misjudgment on my part, replays itself over and over again like some detestable skipping record.
Not really sure what the point of this post is, but I'm really tired right now, so I think I'll try to get some sleep