Night passes as it likes; all alone in pleasant company. The quiet hum of the projector producing a static image across the wall serves as a manifestation and a metaphor for the noise jutting across my closed eyes and into my ears, worthlessly producing a jumbled picture I don't really care to decipher.

Equilibrium has found its way back to this tightrope that I chose to live on. The situation finally fell fully into place, in the ironic twist of searching far beyond to come right back to the base of it all. I know I performed well. I should be happy. I should be optimistic. I should be satisfied.

So why aren't I?

What is it that makes contentment and peace so fleeting for me? A victory is retained no matter how it's cut, THE victory that I sought. Yet paranoia crawls like insect legs inside of my lethargic skin and the idiot self destruct button screams at me all the inadequacies of the situation and myself. You might be earning three grand a month, but you're SICK and INCOMPLETE and will never climb out of that no matter what fiction you drown yourself in. You might have more sex than anyone else on the planet, but you're awkward and just a faggot and will never be able to provide what you desire to yourself or anyone else. On top of this obsessive need to self loathe, I am choked by the Catholic sense of guilt that I was raised steeped in, like the disbelief of a Hell I was always made to know I would be sent to.

Every piece of it is silly and wasteful, but this knowledge does nothing to change that. Life is suffering, and transient, so what fucking impulse pushes me to fill myself up with an artificially high amount of it like white blood?

The happier I get, the more raw the pain of my situation feels. The better I make my life, the more I'm haunted by how badly it started out. As much as I would like to believe that this is a revelation, it isn't. Do I even have the ability to break this circle within my life? God, I hope so.

This confession has meant nothing.

Destroy Once Done