Something was put at ease. I don’t know what it was. But something is in the right “spot” now. There’s a half still dangling. But the main chunk is replete.
I feel stronger. Less psychotic.
But the depression it’s not really depression. It’s just negative symptoms.
That part is fucking me over so hard.
I want someone to talk to.
This shitty petty blog posting won’t do it. Microposting won’t do it. I have to not expect things to be rectified with just a few paragraphs. I have to be in it for the long haul. I have to write book worths of words.
So, instead of sprinting, I should pace myself.
I was sprinting. Because I thought it was the right thing to do. Not to cheat or have it easy way out or anything. I just thought it was the right way to go. It isn’t. I see that now.
“There’s so much I don’t understand.” No not that.
No self-denigration to be inspiring. You take it for granted. That’s fine. You do you. You are inspired. You mean it. That’s okay. That’s great. I’m focusing on me.
I’m pessimistic. Not evil. Just pessimistic. So, I can survive, too. It’s a different style.
I want friends to help me. I’m all alone. No friends are going to help me.
I want to go running. It’s too hard. I can’t run. I get… it’s too hard.
This blog is a death wish. This is a dead end zone. I need a second blog just to complain about how poorly this one is going.
Life’s a reality.
I hate how ending words are emphasized and last more over the rest of the stuff. The bulk.