From months of slump to a now relentless volatility (topped with a fine layer of downer irritability), is this increased recovery or the same sickness masked in different symptoms? Mustering a departure from introspection would do me some good but any attempt at new interaction, no matter how much desired, is still too risky as two lessons learned in the prior week marked. As is, existing bonds are horridly frayed and in need of a delicate repair however impeded by my choleric mood's contradiction of necessity with aversion. My mouth remains mute despite my yearnings to awake. My mind, clouded thick with cynicism, refuses to accept its physical surroundings enough to condone any sort of adaptive harmony. I find myself vigorously compensating (and further deluding myself with distraction from the immediate situation) through study. I'm starting over, yet again and even more so than I originally perceived was necessary. (In my darkened state, I remained oblivious to the depth of my descent. But had I known would I really have stopped sooner?) Presently, I saturate my blank thoughts with a purification by plagiarism, resuscitation in exploration, discovery, memorization. I study and study and study, too pusillanimous to confront the imminent challenges within, and instead bolting off in frantic (though subdued in guise) detachment with the pellucid but subconscious craving to outsource fortitude for later confrontation.
I've been here before. Nothing came of it. What has changed and what is merely reverted?
As I shed and deny more and more of my responsibilities and obligations at the risk of becoming insincere and alone, the reasons for these sacrifices in character remain unrealized. In distance, both tangible and abstract, I hoped to ascertain the seductive freedom of mind which has always lingered so elusively out of reach; however, as much as my pace distances me from what was known I have come no closer to my destination, a bit like an muddied treadmill which wears me out uselessly while kicking up dirt at what I've left behind. Analogies aside, I know that in part the hindrance is a sort of symbiotic separation anxiety of history, namely, my past mistakes clutch just as much to me as I do to them. Externally, the disorder obviates itself only as one-way, but secrets and empathy reveal ties more constricting. My blind eye only exacerbates what is naturally discomforting. What now? Patience and confrontation.
Between enduring this coughing cold that won't die and the recent unduly stress of my job, my reinvigorated semi-sanity hasn't been given the opportunity yet to yield increased productiveness: dilemma strikes again in unanticipated but redundant form. Mainly, time evades and my patience is unwaveringly underdeveloped. Survival actions confusingly consume excessive portions of my days and I find the only way to avert such superfluity is through sacrifice in the opposite extreme, be it in tea-induced insomnia, decreased job performance by distraction, or neglect in self-maintenance. I pick my poisons hoping to find a cure, vacillating in a subtle violence. But at least this wayward motion yields motions and I am glad to have rid myself, however passively, of the debilitating collapse of will I suffered in the most recent month of earlier. But still, I search for the static mental equilibrium which will relieve me of my crooked path.
I've been here before. Nothing came of it. What has changed and what is merely reverted?
As I shed and deny more and more of my responsibilities and obligations at the risk of becoming insincere and alone, the reasons for these sacrifices in character remain unrealized. In distance, both tangible and abstract, I hoped to ascertain the seductive freedom of mind which has always lingered so elusively out of reach; however, as much as my pace distances me from what was known I have come no closer to my destination, a bit like an muddied treadmill which wears me out uselessly while kicking up dirt at what I've left behind. Analogies aside, I know that in part the hindrance is a sort of symbiotic separation anxiety of history, namely, my past mistakes clutch just as much to me as I do to them. Externally, the disorder obviates itself only as one-way, but secrets and empathy reveal ties more constricting. My blind eye only exacerbates what is naturally discomforting. What now? Patience and confrontation.
Between enduring this coughing cold that won't die and the recent unduly stress of my job, my reinvigorated semi-sanity hasn't been given the opportunity yet to yield increased productiveness: dilemma strikes again in unanticipated but redundant form. Mainly, time evades and my patience is unwaveringly underdeveloped. Survival actions confusingly consume excessive portions of my days and I find the only way to avert such superfluity is through sacrifice in the opposite extreme, be it in tea-induced insomnia, decreased job performance by distraction, or neglect in self-maintenance. I pick my poisons hoping to find a cure, vacillating in a subtle violence. But at least this wayward motion yields motions and I am glad to have rid myself, however passively, of the debilitating collapse of will I suffered in the most recent month of earlier. But still, I search for the static mental equilibrium which will relieve me of my crooked path.
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