And Many, Many Valleys Of Sorrow And Mountains Of Death.

I don't want to do this anymore. It fucking hurts so bad. It's not worth it. I'm tired.

The music dances inside my mind,

It's beautiful and it's urgent

It's my escape from words that I can't find the symphony to write.

I can't feel the hurt or the pain,

only the excruciating absence of happiness.

— Fernando Pessoa, from “The Book of Disquiet.”

I just read “each time you open a book and read, a tree smiles knowing there's life after death”and OH MY GOD

If my mental illnesses weren't enough, the seasonal cold has been sitting on my head making my mind even more cloudy and jammed. How is any of this fair?

“Please dont expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.”

— Sylvia Plath

gave me a personality disorder

back from a vacation to the same spirals and work, home sweet home.