I'm not well, or maybe I am. Maybe I'm just trying to convince myself that I'm not because I hate my job. I'm missing something. The blood I coughed up this morning hints for the answer and brings me to number #23 on my list of reasons to quit smoking.
I'm still hurt about R. Our relationship is a confusing matted knot that only gets worse and more complicated with every confession and conversation.
I'll probably get hurt again, but whatever. Closure is over-rated.
Nearly all of my time is occupied by things I don't want to do, but have to. I'm wasting time, wasting space, wasting away. I wonder when I'll start living my own ideas of social expectations, and just be content. Content is happiness. I do too much, but I can't face the idea of doing nothing. I'll cut back on something, and replace it with ten times too much of something else.
I'm afraid of silence, afraid of myself, afraid of falling.
and where's the risk?
