And I drive myself crazy, thinking everything’s about me. -Heavy, Linkin Park
It’s strange how much we make ourselves suffer. We bother ourselves, we pick fights, we desperately try to hold on to something that makes us look like we have it hard, we try to make it right by proving ourselves right.
We thirst for sympathy. We label closure as catharsis and speak in labyrinthine riddles, hoping against hope there’ll be someone who can decipher them. Someone who’ll sit with us and figure out what we’re insinuating when, or even if we are, anything at all. Spiralling down underground, secretly hoping there’ll be someone who follows us. Dancing just out of reach when someone pulls us close. Walking away, expecting yourself to be found.
Thinking that our blurred vision gives our words definition.