Attached

I have become suddenly aware of the fact that my own happiness is heavily dependent upon that of others. And by others I mean the people I care the most for, who oddly enough aren't always what people would call my "closest friends".

In fact, I think I might even say that I'm more emotionally invested in the happiness of people whom I have little to no effect upon. I always feel the most for the people I am the least capable of helping. It's a bit of a paradox, yeah? I want to, almost need to help someone, but apparently have not the resources nor the personal connection to do so.

My life is a series of extremely rotten and unchangeable laws.

For instance, I love people but am incapable of expressing said love.

I also need to be loved and needed, but hate being around people a good deal of the time.

I crave happiness, but enjoy wallowing in my pathetic miseries.

Indeed, it seems I have a disgustingly cozy little rabbit hole for myself. Just cozy enough to at once keep me both comfortable and trapped. How lovely. And what's even better is that I've dug it myself, for no one could possibly know the size and other nebulous specifications of this hole but me. Aren't I so clever?

Attachment is such a silly thing. Sometimes I wish I wasn't attached to anything but God. That would be a simple, uncomplicated life. But the more I wish, the more I sink. The more I sink, the more I wallow. And wallowing only leads me to wish once more, and so you see we have indeed a vicious circle. Deary, isn't that just peachy?

Sometimes I hate logic. Thinking logically ruins my wallowing and I'm forced to realize that all my moaning is smelly and distasteful. And of course this sucks all the fun out of wallowing.

My brain is such a complicated place in which to live. Please be thankful that my rabbit hole is not your home.

I once wrote a story about a boy who could possess people, influence them. And I mean possess in the most sci-fi way possible. He hated the way his mind felt and became addicted to the way it felt to be someone else, to live inside another mind. His own was suffocating and scary because of what he knew was hiding in the corners. It is only now that I've come to the conclusion that this character was actually the fabulously fantastical realization of my own desires and blah blah blah.

Urhg. This update is particularly generous with my faults and far too serious. I should practice writing things that are less revealing. I'll follow Salvador Dali. Yes, that's a novel idea.

"It is not necessary for the public to know whether I am joking or whether I am serious, just as it is not necessary for me to know it myself."

--The aforementioned and fabulously odd Mr. Dali