I truly believe that good things come to good people. I don't believe it in a spiritual universal way but in a practical logical way. Anyway makes me wonder if I really am a good person or not.

Honestly

I don't really know how I feel or what this feeling means or how I'm supposed to be and act because most of the time I'm just trying to find the right thing to do but it comes out wrong. It's like what it will be like when I try to explain myself because none of the words will sound right for what I want to say because I'm still not sure what I want to say. Maybe I shouldn't let the words form so spontaneously because it's so easy to say things you don't mean when you're under pressure, in the moment

I was told

that I am never sad or angry

and that makes sense

because I never show you my sad or my angry

and because you don't see my sad or my angry

you show me your sad and your angry

and wonder where mine is

and because you don't know about my sad or my angry

you never try to take it away

but that is probably fair because you don't know about them

because I never wanted to show you

because it never seems like it will change anything

except give you more sad and more angry

so instead I will keep mine

and let it whither away in mine own body with the other sads and angries that

I have pushed deep down further into myself rather than let it out into

a world already full of sads and angries

Conflicts of interests

Sometimes when you try to spread yourself too far apart you wear yourself thin in some places

So you try to push from this side to that to even it out

But you end up pulling too hard on one end that the other end is so thin you can see right through it

And you can feel it about to tear so you brace yourself and you don't know whether you should have done something or if you could have done something to keep everything together but maybe there's just not enough to go around

The funny part about it all is that there's no room for you in all of this. Everyone sees you moving in and out and around and they think that you are doing this all for yourself, that you are spreading yourself out because that is what your self wants or needs but that isn't true at all, not at all

furthermore

sometimes i feel like i could just disappear and i wouldn't even notice and neither would anyone else because that's how the world is, how life is

time always manages to slip on by so sneakily, i hardly even feel its tender tendrils grazing me and instead i am constantly in a daze watching the days, weeks, months repeat themselves and i can almost tune out and yet everything goes on as it always does

maybe it's feelings of futility or insignificance that make it so hard to do anything, especially when the lines and divisions of rights and wrongs are even grayer and hazier than they have ever been before

sometimes when i stare off into nothing, i am really floating in the empty space between my ears feeling and seeing nothing and sometimes it is hard for me to think that death is even emptier than that

I don't even think I remember how to write

Why did I stop writing? Looking back on old entries is a strange thing because I feel so distant from the person who wrote it. This separation might not necessarily be caused by changes in myself over time but rather general detachment from my own feelings. It is as if reading uses the logical side of my brain but writing can access the typically inaccessible emotional side.

When I think about it now though I realize that is not that I do not feel strong emotions. I just don't understand them. Instead whenever I feel more emotional, I am more encompassed by an emotionally unstable haze that aren't distinct feelings of anger or sadness. Instead I say I'm in a "funk," which says nothing and means nothing. So really writing about how I feel is my way of using my logic to decipher my feelings.

God, I do not know what it is really but it sure feels good to form words out of this "funk."