The Way Back Machine.

It’s very interesting to me how despite the passage of time, despite emotional growth… I am still of the same feelings. Cut from the same cloth so to speak. My feelings seem to follow a very clear path straight to destruction regardless of the true state of things in my life. This is my baseline. There are ups and most assuredly there are downs but I coolly return to this neutral low state of being.

I re-read things. And all those things seem equally true in the present though they were written in the past.

Just a curation, from the Summer of 2005. I really remember that summer as very distinctly BLUE. So very blue. From blue restaurant walls to blue skies peering into my small, dark room. The blue glow of my computer screen late into the night and early into the morning. I wrote and read and bled a lot that summer. Blue and red. ‘A portrait bruise just like you. And now you’re walking away.’ ♫ Strange, though, that I miss that summer very much. It’s such a concrete memory so well-documented that I am more able to remember it ‘fondly’ despite how depressing those days were for me.

I feel so utterly hopelessly confused. Looking back, I don’t know whether to regret the year or be grateful for the experiences it brought me. It all always falls apart in the end does it not? I thought it’d hurt more, but that’s probably only because I’ve felt more hurt than this before. Pain knows no boundaries.

Everyone cheered me on and led me to believe that it was alright. But deep inside I knew the truth. The feeling was less; the idea of it felt better than it truly did. I fooled myself good.

There is another world altogether underneath my exterior. I live a private world of pain and sadness. I try not to let it affect me, but it shows. Oh, how it shows. In every smile I give, I can feel myself crumbling; I’m falling—I’m falling. I want to close my eyes, and pull the covers over my face for good measure, and cry myself to sleep—all without anyone knowing. I want to stay all alone; no, wait, I am all alone. And yet I’m still not content. I want someone to understand but am so afraid of meeting someone that does. Why, if they understand they’re no better off than I am! So tell me, what do I need?

It’s all over. I feel as though I missed something. Did I? I was unimportant wasn’t I? I was never given a second thought. “Why does it always have to be about you?” he asked me one time. Well, isn’t it always my fault?! I provide for needless complications. In my heart of hearts I know it to be true. I find solace in expressing my worries and troubles. I believe I only did it with you anyhow. Everyone else yearns to express themselves equally, if not more so than I, but not you. People talk on and on about themselves. What right have I to talk about myself when they’re so wrapped up in their tales? But with you it was different; maybe I only made it so because you never cared, but I made myself believe that it was different. I fooled myself completely. Don’t you dare tell me I get depressed when I go on about how you don’t care — you don’t.

Thinking is bad. Feeling is even worse. Emotions are for the weak. I’m awfully weak, and I hate myself. Don’t you hate me, too?

You’re surrounded by people when the overwhelming feeling of tears borders your soul; or yet, even worse, when you are all alone–rejoicing at the fact and somehow pitying yourself from it all the same–and your tears may cascade as well as from any waterfall, but you are incapable of dropping a single solitary tear or cry. The sentiment lingers, but nothing to show for it.

Feeling as though no one could truly understand my situation–or my train of thought, least of all–I did not wish to pursue a conversation with someone that would feel even the slightest bit as I did.

Why must we speak to anyone at all? Can I not just sleep my life away?

My mind is undecided: one moment I think it best to live happily and make friends and keep up my relations while another moment I think it wise to stay alone forever; which is best? I’m trying to let you know that I’m better off on my own. Still I am hesitant to be alone; it is what I fear the most. But all the people I care to keep on calling on have long gone and perhaps I only considered them important in my past. It may be that I once held people at a higher esteem and my memory recalls them as important. With a clear head, though, I can come to the realization that they are most likely no different than the people in my life now. Whatever happened to them, and what of them, and them? Do they ever think of me and what has become of me? Most likely not; the more likely they are content with their lives and going on day by day, leaving the people they once knew behind.

I have not yet forgotten a face. Everyone is important. Consider everyone valuable. I’ve learned that although at first glance one may not seem to strike a match with someone, you might become closer to them than anyone else.

The more I progress through life the less able I am to produce any new thoughts or words based on my feelings/experiences. All the words have already been produced. All the feelings have already been explained. The physical state of things may be different but the way I will feel about them has already occurred in the past. I’m not sure I’ve felt anything new in quite some time.

The pleasure I will feel tomorrow is exactly the same as the pleasure I felt yesterday. My dopamine levels will spike in just the same pattern as before to any new or familiar pleasurable experiences. My brain is unable to produce any more new feelings. So I seek new experiences (sometimes even poorly executed experiences) just in search of new feelings. But I’m not that sure I am mentally capable of producing any more new chemical reactions in my brain to my physical experiences.

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