Deliberation

I'm not back to old habits.

These poor choices are new. Maybe they're fueled by the carcass of old demons. Maybe that's why the taste is so familiar and so distinct.

If the subjective experience of emotions can be compared to a kitchen, then I used to have things pretty well labeled. And don't get me wrong all the utensils are in place and everything is where it's supposed to be. It's just the arrival of ingredients I haven't known before. Both bitter and sweet.

I find myself entertaining some thoughts on a regular basis. The affinity of my day to day relationships, the why behind it all, the meaning of identity. I hate it all. I hate the uncertainty. I hate the lack of control I have

I am aware that I need to either let go or learn how to enjoy the strife

You know, I still write about you. Not nearly as much as I think about you or think about writing about you. But I still do.

Mourning you has been a thorn on my side just as it has been an exercise on self reflection.

I woke up in the middle of the night having dreamt of drunkenly texting you and of your casual reply. I was so happy, all the frustration melted away and I just wanted to keep the conversation going. I know that, disregarding all my anger, it's what I'd realistically do.

And I still think about you every time I see old buildings or amazing feats of architecture because as life would have it I'd be moving to the architecture capital of the world. And I'll summon you in my thoughts and ask myself what you'd enjoy about what I'm seeing and somehow travel down the river of self pity considering I will never share your passion with you again and how even if I could I might not be ready for it anyway.

I wish beautiful things would stop reminding me of you.

I used to think it would creep in the late hours of the night. The invisible hand that slides under my skin and grips my throat, just enough for consistent discomfort, not enough for suffocation.

At least that's how I "externalize" my rationalization. As if it wasn't me, as if I was a victim of a foreign body. But in reality it is my hand on my neck, it is my finger on the trigger when I daydream and catch myself enjoying the fraction of the second in which I fantasize about taking action to subdue the heavy poison that occupies my mind.

It's tragic how obvious my selfishness is, my use and reference of "I" is excessive and in my delusion I'd rather clock out than attempt a sensible option.

I used to think it would creep in the late hours of the night, but here I am, blinded by the sun as if were punishing me for not believing in it.

Issa mood