The time is upon me to start looking at myself, deep into the recess of my warped little mind, and search for the truth. I live a life of quiet desperation, yet, I am paralyzed by anxiety of doing anything more that just get by. I often find myself vacillating between self-loathing, self-acceptance, and self-denial. I am truly frustrated and feel isolated an alone. I talk to strangers sometimes on the web, and not for any perverted reason, but just so I don't feel like I'm so alone. I often seek out those who are somewhat neurotic and misanthropic like myself. I find them through friends, of friends. I get to know them before I even say hello. It's safe. I don't know if I will ever write professionally like I dream of in my own mind. Instead, I fear I am fated to work a seemingly endless stream of unfulfilling, soul-killing, and morally unsatisfying jobs just to support my family. I love absurdity. When I am not a part of it, I have a genuine appreciation for farce and irony. There is just so much baggage in my life that I have to work through. So much. And no, I wasn't violently gang-raped by a band of roving crack-heads, or brutally beaten by a vicious captor. But it's sad all the same, and tragic. And it has shaped my brain, and force my mind to construct these defense mechanisms which, I still use to this day. Even at the zenith of any happy moments in my life, I feel this darkness creep in to my soul. It scares me, and depress me all the same. Ugh.
Good Nacht.
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