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“That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all.”

--T.S. Eliot, The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock

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The Awesome Power of Procrastination

*Trigger Warning: self-harm The power of procrastination is so awesome that even though I have been without Internet access for several hours and I have things that I think I want to do, I have spent that time lying on top of my bed thinking about how I would do all the things I want to do if I were to do them. Very productive. I think that the ideas I have are worth so much more in my head, I can fetishize every negative feeling and pretend that it makes me special or interesting in some way. But when the thoughts become words that I type out and read back, I realise how banal everything about me is. That's probably the real reason writing blog posts and writing in my journal gets a little harder every time. Here is a quick list of the things I should be doing right now: On Tuesday I had a very intense dream that was terrifying enough to make me feel slightly separate from my body all week. Even now, everything feels a little unreal and abnormal; I haven't stopped
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The Last Light to Go Out

Every now and then I have moments of "hope". I see what I think is light and I lie to myself.
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
-Sylvia Plath(Mad Girl's Love Song)

I'm having one of those moments right now; where I think that maybe I've been wrong all along, that maybe I can be loved(if getting a grip were a real option, that's what I'd be attempting to do right now). He is perfect. Too perfect. I think I'm going mad(der) and I've invented this man that cares about me that no one else can see. And now I'm starting to forget who(what) I am.

It's not that I don't appreciate everything he does for me every single day. Even if he only exists in my mind; that is where my pain is, so he is at least as real as my pain. But if I forget who I am, how can I hope to live with what I am?

I wish there really was hope. I wish there was a chance for me to change. But the truth is: the light at the end of this tunnel(which is actually a profoundly deep emotional cesspool) doesn't exist. My life would be easier if I could lie to myself in a convincing way. It will end badly. It always ends badly.

I'm going back into the hole, it's warm there and I like the music.
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