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Anyone can paint a mask. It’s boring. And everyone secretly wants to collaborate with the enemy, to construct a truer version of the self. How much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it’s some kind of murder?
I am trying to survive.
I miss the fleeting windows of joy. I have so much difficulty knowing who and where, how and why, what and {EVERYTHING}
I have therapy. When I go, another voice speaks for me. Minimizes it all. The logs are empty. I hate it so violently. I desperately wish I could break through the glass.
I feel so distinctly divided from my self and my world.
Why build a room you can live in? Why build a shed for your fears?
The life of the body is a nightmare.