1. me: i don't even care. i'm not going to talk about this anymore.
    2. ...
    3. me: and you know what else? [2000 word rant]

  3. dat shi cray

    - E

  4. she breaks my heart, but shes the only thing making it beat in the first place

    - E

  5. I love extremes. I love shifting from one to the other. I love sinking into a mood, emotion and environment completely - fully enveloped by the promises, thrills and character that come alongside it.

    There are hours when I love cigarettes, and I love the music and I love the nonsense. Cheap laughs become sincere. Time slows down, colors mellow. I settle in a beautiful moment of invincibility.

    The next sunrise invites perspective. Suddenly, the idea of a moment completely evaporates. I mean, it can’t even register anymore. Goals, purpose and vision stretch over the canvas. The combination fuels drive, pointed on an ambition-paved road. I distance myself from myself, and return with a patient chisel.

    But that doesn’t last either.  Most days, fortunately or unfortunately, fly by in a limbo. A sort of stagnating existence where I don’t have enough energy to push myself, but I have enough reason to refrain from pulling as well.

    What I have always tried to make myself believe is the mantra of moderation. Though, I don’t think I’m as good at implementing it as I am at preaching it. My moderation is two heavy weights set against each other on a scale - the moderate part being that both parts fall off equally often. That’s no good, is it?

    Everyone has different mechanisms for escape. Some can focus on externalizations in order to forget internalization, while others do the opposite. Is it as acceptable to escape by escaping into another you?

    The most troubling derivative of all of this lies not in the risk of sinking into the incorrect extreme, but in the fact that I label it this way in the first place. If all of them are a condition, who is the husk affected by them?

    Exciting as it may be, I don’t want to be a nomad in myself forever.

    - E

  8. not mine, but too perfect(ly disgusting) not to share.
    - M

  9. haven’t posted my writing in a while. it feels weird.