Devour

I really hate it when my head does this to me. I have no fucking drive and it makes me want to hammer something blunt into my skull until it is nothing more than a useless pulp. It certainly feels like that right now—useless that is. 

I did write a sort of journal while I was away, but reading it now, I don’t know if I’ll bother to post it. I need more time, and I’m panicking about the fact that I’m not going to get it. I haven’t started anything I set out to do. 

I really never thought I’d get anywhere. I was lying to everyone. I’m not stupid. I know that I don’t have any of it in me. I’m too hell-bent on hating myself to get anything done. Everything looks so grey and monotone and boring and it doesn’t mean anything, not really. Sometimes I wish someone would take away my choice and force some life into me, but then where would I be? Living on someone else’s wings? I can’t understand myself, why I keep agonizing over it. I don’t know what I want. Nothing satisfies and I can’t bear it. Everything shouldn’t be pain, but that is truly what it is. It’s like everything else is shut off and I’m left with nothing but the doubt and the pain and the regret. 

I am what I am, and that there is no changing it. 

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