无为
I've become more painstakingly judicious about music I listen to, in recent years. not out of some sort of interest in protecting my soul - despite its (perceived) status simultaneously of witchcraft and god, instances of music doing anything to your soul, are I think relatively few and far between - but perhaps the heart, which despite attempts to bury under steel and jokes and anything in between, is still far more reachable. the perils of soundtracking your own life, probably.
in other news, this absurd swing between being a (relatively) normal, healthy, happy, productive, efficient human being and not - really has to stop, yvonne. it's like you're saving up any (every) shred of irrational toxicity over the week so you can release it all at once and become a literal mess for a few days - then return to this normality like nothing even happened.
--
emotional permanence is something I think I struggle with when these brief episodes come about, and coupled with abandonment issues...
sometimes my only saving grace is that farce six years ago, I think. that... pain, for lack of a better word, that has cauterised this diseased mind. it's not that I don't believe you, except it is that I don't believe you. I believe you enough that it would be unpleasant (read:terrible) if you weren't telling the truth, if you weren't telling the whole truth, if you changed your mind - and so, I don't believe you. (the unattainable goal is quite the opposite, of course: I believe you, but I don't believe you enough for it to hurt otherwise.)
if you say you love me six minutes ago, that sentiment may have expired five minutes after its utterance. is that a reflection on your steadfastness? it doesn't matter, because you can be fickle/terrible/just human/an asshole/following your heart and I can be in pain.
I can't turn to you, because someday you will be gone and I will be floundering. this fixation on the future is debilitating and pointless, as usual. oh ye of little faith.
inconsequentiality has always been the goal - if I can love, but never need. on good days, it is easily within reach, but this cyclical weakness will wreck my carefully constructed tower of cards, tear it down to its non-existent foundations.
if I keep silent, maybe you won't notice until I can build it back up, and we can continue believing in my mediocre pleasantness. I may be a saucer of boring water, but at least I won't wreck your ship.
on bad, but not terrible, days - none of this will matter against the pounding insistence in my mind that I want right now to kill myself, usually violently, because that is more fun. even death has to be a little ragey, a little like a coveted prize and a little like just punishment - sometimes a little like penance.
on good days. on good days, I am actually a functional human being, and I can move without turning my life upside down, inside out.
in other news, this absurd swing between being a (relatively) normal, healthy, happy, productive, efficient human being and not - really has to stop, yvonne. it's like you're saving up any (every) shred of irrational toxicity over the week so you can release it all at once and become a literal mess for a few days - then return to this normality like nothing even happened.
--
emotional permanence is something I think I struggle with when these brief episodes come about, and coupled with abandonment issues...
sometimes my only saving grace is that farce six years ago, I think. that... pain, for lack of a better word, that has cauterised this diseased mind. it's not that I don't believe you, except it is that I don't believe you. I believe you enough that it would be unpleasant (read:terrible) if you weren't telling the truth, if you weren't telling the whole truth, if you changed your mind - and so, I don't believe you. (the unattainable goal is quite the opposite, of course: I believe you, but I don't believe you enough for it to hurt otherwise.)
if you say you love me six minutes ago, that sentiment may have expired five minutes after its utterance. is that a reflection on your steadfastness? it doesn't matter, because you can be fickle/terrible/just human/an asshole/following your heart and I can be in pain.
I can't turn to you, because someday you will be gone and I will be floundering. this fixation on the future is debilitating and pointless, as usual. oh ye of little faith.
inconsequentiality has always been the goal - if I can love, but never need. on good days, it is easily within reach, but this cyclical weakness will wreck my carefully constructed tower of cards, tear it down to its non-existent foundations.
if I keep silent, maybe you won't notice until I can build it back up, and we can continue believing in my mediocre pleasantness. I may be a saucer of boring water, but at least I won't wreck your ship.
on bad, but not terrible, days - none of this will matter against the pounding insistence in my mind that I want right now to kill myself, usually violently, because that is more fun. even death has to be a little ragey, a little like a coveted prize and a little like just punishment - sometimes a little like penance.
on good days. on good days, I am actually a functional human being, and I can move without turning my life upside down, inside out.