I didn’t write or read for three days. These three days have been blurry and impulsive and frightening. Reading and writing have become such important parts of my identity that without them I don’t feel real. If my thoughts aren’t on paper then I’m not having thoughts. What writing is to me is a mode of understanding myself through molding my emotions into coherent sentences and writing them down. If I don’t do that then I must have felt nothing and if I felt nothing, then I must have not lived. I have a habit of mistakenly viewing writing as a system to get the validation I so crave. A system where I work hard for something, I give that thing as payment to others in return for a confirmation that I’m not wasting my time. When I don’t get that confirmation I assume that I am wasting my time and should throw away this identity that I’ve worked even harder to find. I’m learning that this delusional perspective that I’ve somehow ended up looking from isn’t healthy and leads to my getting lost in this blurry impulsive mindset that I touched on earlier. I don’t know how I end up in that illusionary place but once I’m there, looking from its perspective, it infects every other aspect of my life, until it can finally find its way to my identity, which is the heart of a person, the center of which everything else has been built around. Once it makes contact with the heart, it can be pulsed through the rest of the body until all that’s left is a fake person with no purpose of being. And that’s when I stop being, and start sleeping through life, where the only way I can see is through a blurred dreamlike tunnel. I don’t want to live like that, I want to actually live. Not just stare at life through a high def television but experience it, create it. And the only I know to create it and feel life for all that it is, is to write it.
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