My thoughts feel so distant from my actions. There's a quote by Kafka that I feel explains this exactly:
"I write differently from what I speak, I speak differently from what I think, I think differently from the way I ought to think, and so it all proceeds into deepest darkness."
Although, I'm not sure if that actually does explain anything in the end.
I type, I write, and I ponder, and in the end I delete every single thing. My words don't stick like they used to. They don't care or feel. Anything. Everything. It's all mixed together to create a mesh of madness I'm forced to believe is actually worth people's time to read.
But you know, it really isn't.
Or maybe it's all perspective again. What's wonderful and exhilarating to me, is pointless and foolish to you.
Perspective is a wonderful yet deadly adventure.
I feel very indifferent to a lot of things, and whether it's because of empathy or a complete lack of caring, is completely over my head.
They've thrown me into a river and I can't get out.
Christmas is three weeks away, and I've been thinking the same thoughts as last year. They always come, and I always think them.
I don't like Christmas, and I don't think I ever will. There's too many strings and crutches attached.
Although it would be nice to let go once in awhile and truly and completely breathe.
The snow is blistering and the wind is blowing. Slipping on ice isn't something I'd call exactly fun.
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