How insane is it, to make blog posts to try to somehow help yourself, and yet being disappointed knowing that people don't even see them. I shouldn't be disappointed, it's certainly better this way, what with the paranoia I feel at the infinitesimally (I guess?) small chance that I would be recognized by someone I know.
Maybe I'm just typing to type. To have something else to do. To give my brain just something to focus on since my life is so fucking mundane that my brain just runs a muck up there.
Good god, doesn't this all just sound just so fucking self-absorbed. Sometimes I think being selfish is better, easier, the right thing to do. You only have one life, so why not be selfish with it? But then selfishness causes pain to others and I'll hold onto the knowledge of that pain for years, for decades. It will eat away at me in the middle of the night. In the midst of a daydream. But of course, so do the repercussions of my so called selflessness. When I'm in a miserable situation that I can't fix because of the imagined pain it will cause to anyone involved.
How absolutely ironic is it that these blog posts don't even actually help me. They help focus my thoughts into a single file stream, but they also pull me into the pessimistic reality that most of us will waste our lives being unhappy in one way or another. Including myself.
How pathetic I've gotten.
Younger me was just as afraid of things as I am now, but they still made an attempt. They made so so so many regrets, but they were still ballsy. The person back then went to the abandoned places, they walked alone at night, they wore whatever they wanted, they were just themself. I wish I could say they were fearlessly themselves, but they were very afraid, they just did it anyway. And now, I've become this pathetically weak person, afraid to ruffle any feathers besides my own.
If I were a bird, I'd have plucked myself bald by now.
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
origamiaround
ellievsbear
