Burial..

Seems as though I’m getting back into the writing habit… in a way it feels as though I’m living through my writing. When I write despite how horrible I feel, the chaos and turmoil within me doesn’t seem so chaotic anymore. I can almost breathe a little and think. Lately though, “it” has been getting worse.. I only ever write when I’m.. empty, but not that usual empty.. this is different it’s as if I literally don’t exist, I’m just an ambiguous thing that only feels pain.

I haven’t been going out much.. or hanging out with friends, I don’t really have any urges to see anyone.. I only go out for walks during the middle of the night.

Alone.. most things lack meaning — even people. I isolate myself from everything to try to appreciate myself and understand myself better. I’m not just “anti-social” or whatever. The meaning of isolated has been lost..

I guess I’d like to love myself even just a little, before I do it, that and then some other things.. so I guess I’m waiting for something miraculous. I know what it is, but she doesn’t want me. As much as everyone tries to console me, and tell me they “understand” they don’t.. “give it time” “it’ll all get better”… I’ve waited and waited and tried and tried and the only thing that’s changed is that my life has been falling apart and I’m somehow managing to go lower into this chaotic hell.