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I wish I had the courage to live the way my words inspire me to
I am in a purgatory
One day I feel flooded with the sweet taste of hope and optimism, the next day I feel 1000 crushing pounds weighing down my shoulders as the tide goes against me
Shame, fear, and hopelessness own me. I’m a slave to my feelings and my circumstances. Sometimes I wonder if it’ll ever get better. Lately my whole life is like one long dream. I fantasize about my escape into my idea of paradise, while doing nothing to work toward it.
The worst part of a dream is when you wake up from it
Nothing is clear to me and it feels like any way out of this pit Ive allowed myself to stew in is obscured in thick smoke
After I failed so many times, I chose to live in a painting rather than a life. I sleep all day, and spend all night thinking about the potential for a life that could never belong to me. Living vicariously through a fiction that feels eternally out of grasp has its costs.
Every word I reveal that has any truth feels like a crime to speak out loud, as the illusion of enlightenment pacifies me at the expense of potential. Everything about me is stuck in a form of cloudy potential, nothing about me is able to materialize in physicality, and at this point I can’t separate whether it’s from my own doing or the forces that control my life.
I am in a purgatory
One day I feel flooded with the sweet taste of hope and optimism, the next day I feel 1000 crushing pounds weighing down my shoulders as the tide goes against me
Shame, fear, and hopelessness own me. I’m a slave to my feelings and my circumstances. Sometimes I wonder if it’ll ever get better. Lately my whole life is like one long dream. I fantasize about my escape into my idea of paradise, while doing nothing to work toward it.
The worst part of a dream is when you wake up from it
Nothing is clear to me and it feels like any way out of this pit Ive allowed myself to stew in is obscured in thick smoke
After I failed so many times, I chose to live in a painting rather than a life. I sleep all day, and spend all night thinking about the potential for a life that could never belong to me. Living vicariously through a fiction that feels eternally out of grasp has its costs.
Every word I reveal that has any truth feels like a crime to speak out loud, as the illusion of enlightenment pacifies me at the expense of potential. Everything about me is stuck in a form of cloudy potential, nothing about me is able to materialize in physicality, and at this point I can’t separate whether it’s from my own doing or the forces that control my life.
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