Hertz

I'm quasi-dead. I'm continuing this charade? Each day an overtime. No one can understand. Absolutely no one. I must be doing something wrong. I can only say I'm sorry to myself, cause I don't know what else to do.

A nagging question in my mind is if my actions, thoughts and words are really mine. I acknowledge my sensations and emotions as mine, but sometimes I feel/wonder if the rest of my being could be a sort of cassette player, playing whatever my parents and society put in there. How could I feel more ownership of my being, words, thoughts and actions? Perhaps I'm not listening to my desires. Do I put other ppls needs first? Distracting myself could help as well.

Folk music.

"Immortals? We'll put their name to the test." - 300

Guilty.

Disingenuous.

Disorganized, messy, unhealthy food and sleep habits.

Work, groceries, physio work out, tv

Feverish. This cold is not going away.

Like I'm enduring life. Like every new experience is an addition to the bucket list.

Work, groceries, tv, video games.

I see open doors and invitations I don't want. Feeling out of place. I hate when the only opportunities around are ones that lead to things I already did and want to move away from. Yet I feel like I'm missing out on this past life. The egg is not hatching. The baby is not coming out. It died in the womb. It is decomposing and poisoning the host. Whatever state it is in, it needs to come out. In the meantime I live the vanilla proletariat life. I'm sending the wrong signals and vibes, and the universe predictably mirrors them. Some people have to work 10 times less to become true to themselves. The world is tailored to them. They find their truth at a low cost. Some truths cost a lot to be found. Perhaps everything. Sometimes your own life. Some people die because they live their truth. Some people's truths on the contrary lead to vast earthly rewards. The margin is where you actually trade hard work for opprobium and peace with yourself. Sometimes stones hurt less than inner warfare. Sometimes being crucified seems like something delectable compared to inner turmoil. When the pain inside is such that it makes all exterior pain taste like vanilla ice cream, then I guess you are ready for anything.

Tried a new medication, made me feel like crap, binged on sugar to cope.

Tool's next album.