Alright. Another day feeling decent. What now? This is always the case; what do I write about now? I really have to push because it feels like it’s all fading away, the poison that plays my ink. It’s not, but it’s harder to know what to say because there’s nothing glaring me in the face. My brain feels decent. Thoughts of being an utter failure of life aren’t haunting me. It’s amazing how much reality can be deluded, how much of reality really is our making. The world can feel like a heap of shit or it can feel like a heap of gold, all through some simple changes in stance. It’s all in the angle of the lighting. Today will be filled with some chores, some socialization. Today will be a day I can stand to live, to be myself. Where does all that self-hatred come from? Yes, it is the inability to stand living my own life that leads to so much of my anxiety and depression, but there’s nothing inherently wrong or failing about me or the things I’ve done. I can chose to see them as such, but it’s not true. Sure, I’ve had more setbacks than most people I’ve known, but I’m not in a bad position, as it is.
Perhaps these periods of wellness provide an opportunity to challenge myself and write about other topics of interest, as I used to. Feminism, for instance. World politics, films, music, art, traveling… I need to re-build myself. Writing informs me, and I inform my writing.