But deep down, I already know that I don't apply myself enough. The actions I prioritize and choose to make of my own volition are not in alignment what I think is ideal for me.

Choosing to play a victim battling against his demons, with countless ups and downs. The story never hitting the ******, in fear and anxiety of what unknown variables comes after.

As I know to be true whenever I am down, I will go up. But when I am up, I do not take the actions to progress upwards even further because I don't want to increase the expectations of myself. So I am happy with these hollow meaningless victories against the "torments" of my mind.

Somehow I get a feel of what Da Vinci means by "The sadness will last forever."

The good thing is, I won't.

They're saying starve the ego.
They're saying feed the soul.
But for some reason nobody's mentioned,
they are two sides of the same whole.

I'm afraid of reflecting on myself.

The pressure of expectations of the selves over the years leaves a bitter emotion.
I want to stop writing.
I feel cold.
Palpitations.
The fingers want to retract into balled fists.
The instinct is to curl into fetal position.
The voice lets out a primal moan of agony, of what the self has been through yet knows it hasn't gone through utter despair so the moan fades into a whimper.
The eyes want to close, the eyelids squint, the eyebrows scrunches, the forehead raised.
Irregular breathing.
The back of the hand smashes into the wall behind him.
The fingers loosen.
Silent screaming.
The soul cries out.


..............................................................­...Haaah...


I need a glass of water.