I feel so hollow. And not in a good way either, as in a vessel that is ready to be filled. I am hollow like a container with holes punched in it, everything I had spilling out into oblivion. Fuck. Even as I am writing this I internally cringe at how pretentious I sound. In a way I've always been overwhelmingly pretentious, and this has manifested itself into my writing. I can never depict situations as they are: I always feel the need to beautify the ugly, make dull things sparkle, and make mundane elements attractive. If you're looking for accurate, reliable depictions, you're looking in the wrong place. There is no room for complete truth here.
[ ^ see what I did there? I'm convinced I could turn anything into pretentious writing ]
Anyways, I hope this feeling fades, because I really have no room for mental health issues right now. I don't want to be depressed. I have no time to depressed. I am stuck in the endless abyss where identity crisis resides. (I can't help but be pretentious. Sue me.)
I need spiritual rejuvenation, something I feel is almost impossible to find. I think I have an idea where to look, though. Somewhere in this town, there is a priest called Jan Rey, and he was the closest thing I ever got to opening myself up completely. His existence holds hope that maybe someone might want to understand me, to listen to me (and not just wait for their turn to talk). Maybe someone would want to know me, and not just the surface of me, either. I do not want to die with so many thoughts and hidden identities and versions of myself pent up inside me. I have to talk to him, and this time I have to follow through.
