14:00 on 11/11 what a pathetic existence for a gluttonous parasite it turns out that under that thin veneer of perfection that you reflect back to yourself you are fallible and faulty and weak but you bless yourself as chosen so you feel emboldened when you hide behind the porcelain masks that replicate the faces of innocents whom you have robbed and stomped into the ground 13:31 on 11/08 i love writing, but i do it so sparingly. i mean real, meaningful writing. there's a part of myself that locks up and chokes because the act of writing is so vulnerable. even if i sit down with an idea in mind after i've worked up the courage to pour my guts out, my throat closes. the feeling of being overcome with excitement to put pen to paper (fingertips to keyboard?) is always met with an inner thud, punch, cinch. yeah, i'm locked up tight. but i can't find release. it's almost as if preventing myself from writing is a subconscious attempt to stop me from realizing some truth about myself. i've thought long and hard about what that could be. the fact that i'm lonely? no, that's already clear. maybe it's stopping me from feeling hopeful that sharing my words will ever mean genuine connection with others. like the words i say are never the right words to bring me closer to others. words don't connect us anyway. they separate us, pushing us further from the point with every character. so maybe its the realization that making my words physical cheapens the experiences i've had. i could never describe it so that it's vivid enough to communicate this experience of life to someone else. i wasn't even aware that that was something that i cared about. it makes me feel that i'm not as brave as i thought if fear or being misunderstood is keeping me from pouring my heart/soul out. the cycle of excitement then denial is like death by a thousand cuts. it aches. it creaks within me. i wish i wasn't such a coward.