I am ridiculous. Thinking that the place I should write it down here, get it out, something, is more of a ridiculous notion. Writing detaches me from my issues, and I really think I've had enough of detachment and avoiding the fucking problem (whatever it is). Logic has told me my own ruined state and that I am really being stupid and so cowardly over everything, thank you. More filing things (feelings) away is not going to quite enough anymore.

I hate having to hold up and be a fucking adult. So much, so much, because I am not one. I don't feel like one, don't want to be one. I just want to be five again. I don't want to stare myself and see every. thing. that went wrong, that I messed up, that I must carry the burden of, that I ran away from, that I cheated out of.

Yet, having lived two decades (a fact that cannot be reversed), I would hate to be helpless and be unwillingly dependent.

I thought I was fine. I thought I have gotten over things, forgotten and filed away. I though I wasn't so deeply entrenched then. After all, calling things off was easy. So easy. It was the best thing to be done for all. I still stand by my decision then, but the poison dug and burrowed deeper than I expected.

And it so casually prods and tugs on designated days.

Impulsive drowning and projecting, I know, is not the cure. But it helps. Oh it helps so much.

恋や思う存分からの幸せの貪欲は溢れているよ。

Another Side. John Barrowman.

I am so fucking pathetic.