And with her came the birds....

I am profoundly disappointed in myself. Even though I have clear goals that I am pursuing, regardless of how pointless they may seem to be to everyone else, even though I have grown, I am still the same train wreck that I've always been. Only, now, it's much worse because I keep heading slowly, gradually downward. I'm always lower than I was before.

I don't really care about the prospects that I will or won't have when it comes to meeting people, because I have completely adopted misanthropy to such a staggering degree. I don't even think of myself as part of that species anymore, because of my own mental illnesses. This has always been the point in my life when I've started taking medication again. But this time, I won't. And that kind of frightens me, as it does even when I do end up taking something for it. I feel as though I'm on the final track, which is so different than any time before now.

I am not heading down with reckless abandon, but with careful, languid deliberation. That is what's completely terrifying about it all. I feel as though I really am rotting from the inside out, now. And while I don't think I'll ever be quite as psychotic as I have been in my life, everything feels different, now. What was once chaotic fury is now psychopathy. What was once distress and desperation is now a cold, chilling contract.

What was once hope buried under mountains of fear and pain is now... pain, masked by numbness and sadness. The kind of sadness that never truly shows itself until it's much too late.

And within this melancholy, I remember my psychic roots. It isn't sorrow for the sake of sorrow. This is my real expression. I've never been able to adequately explain that, I feel. In our culture, this kind of presentation is usually used for self-reinforcement; it's all to exercise the ego in that destructive, pointless way that only shallow people can. But that is not me. I have to write things like this for my own sanity, even when it never really feels like it helps all that much. Whenever I go back through my writing, though, I find that this is the only real beauty I've ever known: The solemn, broken structures erected out of necessity.