that you don’t think. You almost have to live your life in a kind of fog if you want it to work for you at all; to do otherwise is to ask for trouble. Every time I start to think, my head starts to hurt. Maybe that’s just years of damage, I don’t know.
I’m here early and without interruption for the first time in a long time and I’m coming face to face with the actual situation. Money, study, work. Dammit, things are a mess. Why didn’t I see this before?
Bigger issues are always afoot, and tonight is no different. I was looking at some photos and listing to some tunes and thinking about some things and I lost the thread of being again, just straight up stopped being able to figure it out. There’s a reason I don’t have too, too many friends in the world and it’s that I often find it easier at the end of the day not to try and cope with people at all. Opinions, preferences, personalities, differences, intentions, dissentions, and whatever else happens when two sentient beings are in the same room.
It’s all too much for me. Sensitive? Fuck yes. Too sensitive. So sensitive I’ve never quite been able to do it right without absolutely suffering everyone else’s shit.
I have been so many people and the odd thing is that now I look back and feel sorry for some of them as though they were external to me, as though they were people that need help or that I should feel pity for, and I look back at others with a strange kind of envy, not quite knowing what to do or say in relation to that sensation.
Mostly right now, tonight, I am dazed once again. I am trying to have all of my memories at once and instead I am simply having sensory overload. There are people I feel like calling only I won’t know what to say to them anyway (there isn’t anything to say—my life is far too simple and I can’t hear about theirs) and some things are best left alone in the first place.
Dammit dammit dammit.
Sometimes salvation is a little bit of poetry scribbled on a couple yellow sheets that only you will ever, ever read in a million years. It is the shattered bits of time caught in the inky fingerprint fragments that lie, almost lost, at the edges of legal pads.