The weight

August 7, 2017 – 1:08 am

41. Still fucked up. Still chasing some kind of down and out love story while drifting further from the chances to realize the romanticized interpretation that I’ve tried so hard to believe in.

What version of myself will appear in the decade to come? Every version of myself has failed. No one is impressed by any version of myself. Any version of myself with a chance isn’t a version of myself.

41. Still fucked up.

I have a psychiatrist. I have a therapist. I have a couples therapist. Surrounded by therapy.

41. Still fucked up.

I want to jump over the edge but I’m afraid to take a Tylenol after a beer. I’ve relied on people to push me over the edge. I can’t do it myself.

When I am in the middle of my crusade for validation, I often think to myself, “I don’t even care about the thing I’m arguing right now.” and I continue to fight as if my life depends on it.

Our world is coming to an end. All the signs are there of a world gone mad. I’ll be surprised if we make it in to 2018. The world is on fire. No one is well. We are breaking and we’re going to fall very hard.

You are unaffected. Death isn’t such a scary thing to you. You’ve had to deal with it your whole life.

Dead. I’ve been dead for a long long time. It’s not getting any better. There is no problems. Just the fight for my soul. Everything is heavy.

If I could only laugh.

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