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The more "connected" I am, the less connected I feel to myself. When I have something to pour myself into I feel generally better about the whole state of affairs that is the world; well maybe not better, but there is a greater sense of absurdity and humor there. When I have nothing to pour myself into, or, better yet, choose nothing, nothing can stop the flow of foul decay running through my mind. Murky with death and plague, fragments of the discarded, and a very specific rotting smell that wafts up and never leaves your nose. That familiar smell of organic matter having broken down to the point of liquid, sitting in the hot sun, becoming a solid again - fungus.

Temporary reprieves help pass the time, but many make me feel worse in the end, like more of a failure, more of an asshole, more isolated from myself. Sleep doesn't help anymore, when I can even catch it. And I know that this will all pass, but knowing that doesn't seem to help right now. Apparently, nothing seems to help right now. Yeah, not even this, as I had hoped it would. Putting things into words, for me, often merely solidifies how I'm feeling and makes it immediate. The realization of how you really feel can be a great thing, but if I already am aware, slapping it across my face does little to relieve the tension. So why do I do this to myself? Fuck.