Things become tricky when I begin to lose the distinction between rage and desire.  When dissatisfaction and self-hate are one, and all I want to do is get myself eviscerated before I unleash upon someone else ( Read more... )

It's been a month and a half since I last wrote any Fiction.  I suppose that's part of the reasons I miss the depression.  It's so hard to write when there's nothing behind it.

At any rate, there's something behind this one.  A mood, if nothing else.  It's odd, because without intending it, it corresponds rather well with Romance 10.  I can't really ( Read more... )

I never thought I'd say this, but I wish I was depressed again.  This anger, this frustration, this increasing contempt bred of an ideology that demands I always expect better.  Self-hatred was easier when it was just me that was contemptible.  I'm rapidly looking towards external factors for determining my emotional state, which not only stunts ( Read more... )

Contentment is a new experience.  It's not "happiness," (although I rather wonder if the past events were mere euphorias that came and went with the wind)but it's so very much more than an ambivalence to existence that fluctuates between antipathy and apathy ( Read more... )

1) I left my computer at my dorm (this is my mom's).  I'm rather glad I did ( Read more... )

I saw King Lear for the first time, tonight.  I enjoyed it, although "enjoy" might not quite be the right word.  That, in combination with the regular Friday-night-alone doldrums (unexpected, but present nonetheless) , provoked more Fiction.

It's been a good past few weeks.  Better than quite awhile.  Which, I suppose, would make the Fiction be a ( Read more... )

I'd been feeling apathetic.  In a form of stasis, my life just more waiting, my cares things of futures yet to come.

But on Saturday nights, such thoughts can't help but seem the stuff of Fiction.

I hate feeling alone.

And

I hate feeling alone.

My life's reverted to either being full of stress and work (or the putting off thereof) or "killing time."  It may as well be synonymous with "waiting," because that's all it really is.  I'm waiting to work, I'm waiting for grad school, I'm waiting for "someone."  And it's a soft depression.  It doesn't hurt so much as... weigh.  Hang over me, like ( Read more... )

I.

I wonder what it says about me, that I have only been able to find peace is being someone else for the vast majority of my life.  What is it about me that I find so utterly intolerable?  Why do I want to tear my body to shreds, to make myself scream, to make myself suffer so very much, refraining because of mere trivialities like medical bills?  ( Read more... )