The trouble is, I am not at peace with myself; I am not always “something,” and if for once I am “something,” I pay for it by “being nothing” for months on end.
—  Franz Kafka, from Letters To Felice

It’s sad when you know the risks of something but you just can’t care.

Like we know cigarettes will ruin our lungs but we crave them, even when we haven’t smoked yet. Or how since our young brain is not developed, smoking weed regularly will eventually take a toll. Or we down a bottle of vodka even though that amount can kill. Or how we slice away at our skin, knowing emotionally those cuts don’t seem to heal. Or how we fall in love over and over again young, knowing it won’t last.

Why can’t we just move along, skip the risks? Because I really don’t want to get stuck.