Lately, I have been focusing on the tragedy and stupidity of my regrets... not really having an appreciation of what has become of my life after I paved my path impulsively. That's what my book is about... but there is always a new climax and at this rate... I'll never finish writing. Its kind of unfathomable but maybe my foolish mistakes can be turned into a novella or a mini series of nonfiction. Or maybe I'll just throw it out the window. Who cares?
I still remain captive to the inevitable swings of my borderline disorder. Yet sometimes, I feel too well versed in the uncanny truth of it all. I'm being silly. My brain is lying to me... but the emotions spring like wildfire and thoughts can be like gasoline. I've been through this time and time again... why can't I just be a mage and use it to my advantage... manipulate the fire or summon water?
I felt bad last night, I was being crushed by the weight of feeling like I've failed or that people purposefully do things for the sole purpose of fucking with me. It sucks. Its like going full speed on the interstate and not being able to take your foot off the gas.
Doing things... feeling like there is no fill for these voids and then taking a pill, dreaming... and taking on a new world and waking up like everything you felt prior was just a dream that withered and blew away. But those feelings were real... and you opened your mouth, said all the wrong things and closed the door without apologizing.
Do you even want to look back and apologize? Its too shameful. Truth is always painful and embarrassing when you were wrong.
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