Collected?
I don't really know.
I don't seem to be able to collect --my thoughts, I mean. I am talking about them, you know?
It's not like I really know what my thoughts are about. Should I even be here, whining? Are my problems really problems? Why am I even complaining? Does anyone really want to read any of this?
Wow. Here it goes again. The self-absorbing bitch is taking over. What can I say, I'm my worst fear. My darkest place is within myself.
I guess my greatest problem is that obsession with self psychoanalysis, that persistent pursuit of mine where I'm desperately trying to understand, to get to know my very own self. From the covers to the most inner core.
The thing is that I'm not feeling quite alright. And I hate being so dramatic when everything's just fine in my life. The fact that I still feel holes in there. Breaking me, little piece by little piece. And I can't seem to be able to collect. My thoughts, I mean.
And I don't know what this gutted feeling is.
And I certainly don't feel entitled to be complaining.
When everything is, apparently, so perfect.
YOU ARE READING
•••Thoughts•••
Non-FictionWhen you're trying to feel but you don't know what is it that you're trying to feel. An attempt to put this into words.
