He's going to be golden...

Put these patterns in the past...

I see the beast so clearly now, hovering above me, tangible and in a recognizable form. It's wrapping its stickiness around my throat - and I was helping it. It's grabbing me tightly, making me believe it's my friend. But it isn't. It was a thing I created as a child to allow me to imagine a world where I wasn't in pain. But now it has morphed into a harbinger of the very thing it was supposed to shield me from. Conjuring up fantasies no longer shields me from the present, it prevents me from understanding it. It sets me into overdrive, imagining all the ways people can hurt me, not seeing how I am in fact, hurting myself. I am not my emotions. The beast is not my handler. I will break it, before it breaks me. 

My time, no fears, no lies...

I'm done hiding, 

now I'm shining,

like I'm born to be.

I'm dreaming hard, 

I came so far,

now I believe.

Can't find my own place...

The more things shatter, the more clear it becomes that the brittle and broken things will never again be made whole. The beauty of being shattered is how the shards become our character and our marks of distinction. This is how we are refined by our pain. When the storm rips you to pieces, you get to decide how to put yourself back together again. The storm gives us the gift of our defining choices. You will be a different person after the storm, because the storm will heal you from your perfection. People who stay perfect and unblemished never really get to live fully or deeply. You will not be the same after the storms of life; you will be stronger, wiser and more alive than ever before.

Just another day...

Like an attack this melancholy comes from time to time. I don't know at what intervals, but it slowly covers my sky with clouds. It begins with an unrest in the heart, with a premonition of anxiety, probably with my dreams at night. People, houses, colors, sounds that otherwise please me become dubious and seem false. Music gives me a headache. Talking with people is torture and immediately leads to me making a scene. Anger, suffering, and complaints are directed at everything, at people, at the universe. But they have no effect on things and are deflected from everything, back to myself.

The changes I make in my life often happen when I have a degree of certainty. However, the pain of my past failures often fuel my indecisiveness. This inability to predict the future is why I find myself stuck and unable to move forward. It's not like I want to feel the emotions of failure. I just prefer to talk myself into settling for an "okay" life, rather than the life I really want. However, as I found, failure is a matter of perspective. Is it not failure when I don't take a chance on the one thing I want most? Am I not a total disappointment to Her if I don't even try. 

It's a long way home...

Sorry, I'm here for myself...

Play a sad song on a tiny violin...

Wish someone told me,

living this life would be lonely,

trying to get away from the old me,

still stuck singing these blues,

all I really need is a little good news.

The universe holds me tight, then lets me go...

I think I have to make a clear cut. Or at least pretend I'm making one. Go off on a new journey. Force myself to see myself in a lighter way. Allow myself to say no. To be disliked. To walk away and not feel the need to explain or get an explanation. I am at the heart of what is supposedly my life, and I am squandering it away. Fuck my childhood traumas. I will grow past them and I will be at peace with my decisions. It has always been as simple as that, but making it hard was always my way of avoiding pain. If I want to change my trajectory, I have to change what I am doing and force myself to choose. So, life doesn't choose for me. Because somewhere in that crazy mind of mine, time stopped. I thought someone would rescue me, but they didn't. This is not a fire I can put out; I have to walk through it. Getting burned is half the fun of life, didn't you know?

Hold on, hold on...

What I want to say is, I think the main reason for my anxiety and unhappiness is my almost superhuman ability to think too much. To weave even the most minuscule of moments into an elaborate tale of my downfall. I know that I'll never be truly content, until I can calm the voices in my head. So why then can't I make them stop? Books, games, fantasies, other worlds, nothing can overcome the fear that races inside. Am I then doomed to never be happy again? To hell with patience if my insides are on fire. The overly developed faculty of thinking comes at a price. How do I make it go away? Can someone tell me please? How can I use my mind so I don't lose it? How can I stop using it, when it's not needed. And when using it won't serve any purpose.