Sometimes I just want to curl up in my bed and pretend like time was stopped, like I can remain there forever and it wouldn’t make a difference.
But when I try doing it I feel weird, revealed, disgusted.
I have that feeling sometimes, and it’s impossible to shake.
It’s so ugly, and it builds up in my chest, and I know when it starts and I hate it because there’s nothing I can do to distract myself.
Talking won’t override it, and all I want to do is be alone.
And when I am, all I have is myself and that horrible, horrible feeling, and it’s not any better.
I have to sit there, hug myself as if I can force it out of my heart, up my esophagus and out of me like bile.
Eventually I weave myself into such a disastrous, tangled path of deep thought that I realize that feeling isn’t there anymore.
The aftermath hangs around me like a cloud, obscuring regular thought, keeping me inside my half conscious thoughts and away from conversation, from social interaction.
I hate being with only my mind and when I try to break free all I want is just to be by myself.
What a f***ed up paradox.