there isn’t a book, i’m not gonna write one. fuck this shit i super quit deleting this blog by the end of the year.

Writing

Avoiding sobriety at every chance I get, drinking whatever beer someone tells me is good, sipping whatever mixed concoction that gets me as far away from myself the fastest. All of these actions to alleviate the pain of the tremendous lack of balance and consistency in my life. Which are things I am responsible for; I don’t allow anyone else to take the blame for any pain they have caused me; I believe that I earn it all no matter what it is, or how it came to be.

Cracking jokes and creating moments that seem happy to avoid the questions and concerns from the people that seem to care for me.  I’ve been thinking a lot lately about flowers and gardens and how I compare people to them. I don’t write anymore, I don’t feel the urge or desire to create because I’ve never been a good writer. This is probably one of the last things I will ever write.

I am not tired, I am lying when I say am because I can’t even put into words the feelings that are surging through me every single second of the day. Every night I lay in bed for a hours and I close my eyes and I don’t sleep. I don’t really care, it doesn’t bother me. My lack of sleep or my lacks of interest in my own well being; but these things create varying amounts of worry for the people in my life.

I distance myself from them frequently so they don’t have to worry. I am the least of anyone’s problems.  One of my biggest fears is being a burden for someone else. I am aware of their constant battles and struggles and on goings so why should I weigh them down even more? Some will say that, that’s what being a friend is allowing themselves that room to worry for someone they love and care for. But I don’t want to worry anyone I don’t want to burden anyone. I don’t want to be another problem for them to fix.

I have this lingering insecurity about my love and how overwhelming it can be and how I want to love someone so much that they won’t ever have to ask me if I really love them, or feel the need to question my actions but that’s not the true problem I have. I am afraid of loving someone and then they realize that my love isn’t what they really wanted and I get abandoned once again. I think this stems from my problems with my mother and how I will always regret the last things I said to her and that I never got to say what I wanted or see her before she passed, or maybe it stems from the lack of guidance from an actual father figure. How does that even matter when I am a man myself now? Or I think I am or would like to call myself one.

This isn’t a story or some poem or anything this is just me writing and talking to myself and attempting to figure out what I really feel because I feel nothing anymore.

There are moments where I wonder where my depression comes from; could it have come from my father or mother’s bloodline? Or is it just a side effect of experiences and realizations that I have learned from.

 

It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters to be quite honest.  People come and go, memories remain, feelings change, and people grow.    Somewhere along the way, things are supposed to make sense right?

Things will become as clear an untouched beach’s waters.

I’d like to say that these things pass or that these feelings of emptiness and being lost somehow make sense eventually.

They don’t, you’ll just find long term distractions to keep your mind busy.

But this is probably a lie, this isn’t true, this is just how I see my reality.

I’m not writing a book, I’m not consistent enough in any writing to even put my heart or emotions into any of it and it all looks forced and ugly and I hate everything I create, but I put it in a public light because there’s a part of me that wants to believe that maybe I’m an artist of some sort.

   I am not.

I am not anything.

if we’re being honest i couldn’t even bring myself to finish this completely. i’m afraid of the honesty that I Want. 

 

I keep saying “i understand, i know” i really don’t understand, i really don’t know. 

I can barely comprehend the immense sorrow and agony I experience, yet i can process and be there for anyone who asks that much of me. 

Even though i may lie sometimes and say i understand, I will do my best to stand with you in whatever struggles you feel.

Isn’t that scary, to love and give majority of yourself to people who will soon forget you?

but it’s ok. As long as the people around me are happy. 

 

I gave up on myself months ago, i don’t expect any of you to stick around to finish this out with me.

I quit.

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