do you know how boring it is to try and write something half decent when you’re happy?
pain and anguish fuelled the engines of imagination and made my psyche come alive
to try and let it all out somehow
but now, i find myself rather content.
im not done, far from it. i havent even started the shit i want to achieve yet i am not perturbed.
the crushing paralysis of a lack of self-identity no longer weakens my resolve.
it’s still there though not a frontrunner anymore.
i go through the days like the motions of walking down the street, but never detach myself from the human experience.
it doesnt mean I’m pathetically sociable and open with every soul that crosses my path, it’s just that i now acknowledge their passing.
they’re still there. but i know. i see. i carry on.
i don’t have time to engage in anything i don’t want to engage in but nor do i try to control what will happen next.
the next phases of my life are as unpredictable as the english summer and i have no inclination to try and prove otherwise.
all i know is what i want and what i want to do.
the rest will fall in place.
if it doesnt, there’ll be adequate reason – just not a reason i need to keep myself aware of.
shit’s too short to bother with anything except you and your own but that doesnt mean you go so far as reclusiveness.
don’t forget youre human, things aren’t consistent and nothing is permanent.
once you can accept that your best wont always be enough, and that it doesnt matter, life wont seem such a burden –
more a minor inconvenience.