#��they dont exist’ i will force myself into the screen to physically beat them to death actually

[nonbinarylesbianherb]

this would’ve been Alicent when she was 14. (same age she was married off to Viserys.)

don’t mind me im just crying and screaming and throwing up!!!

[foursprouthappiness-blog]

You Don’t Have To Sell Your Soul To Become An Artist (Trust Me, I Used My Wife’s Instead)

New Post has been published on http://foursprout.com/happiness/you-dont-have-to-sell-your-soul-to-become-an-artist-trust-me-i-used-my-wifes-instead/

You Don’t Have To Sell Your Soul To Become An Artist (Trust Me, I Used My Wife’s Instead)

Allef Vinicius / Unsplash

Madness isn’t usually loud like it’s portrayed on the screen. It’s not bright either — no supernova of unfettered emotion or physical deformity to hint at the rot inside. I didn’t bellow until my throat was raw or bloody my hands on my walls and mirrors. I didn’t splatter my paints across my skin or shred the half-finished canvases which mock my chosen identity.

My wife Joana even commented on how methodical I was when I gently placed each brush in their case, never to be opened again. If you count finger painting in pre-school, then it’s taken me 41 years to fully accept my failure. I should have realized it sooner, but I always managed to concoct an excuse before.

I didn’t try hard enough. That’s a good one. It makes it sound like I could just flip a switch in my mind and force myself to become a master through sheer willpower.

I wasn’t taught well enough. Even better: shifting the blame onto someone else. If only my teachers had been more qualified — if only they’d devoted themselves to nurture my potential like Domenico Ghirlandaio devoted himself to Michelangelo.

I’m not good enough — the hardest pill to swallow. I set out to capture the intrinsic beauty of the human spirit and display it for the world to see, but there is no beauty in me to share. I didn’t scream and throw a fit. I didn’t think much of anything at all. I just let my body move through the familiar motions of life and hoped no one would notice there was nothing below the surface.

Joana asked why my eyes were watering, but I blamed it on the movie we were watching. She punched my arm playfully, calling me a big softy.

“Aren’t you working on something tonight?” she asked.

I blinked hard, not taking my eyes off the TV.

“I remember you talking about that comic book store commission. How’s that coming?”

“It’s coming,” I lied. She tried to snuggle against me, but I slipped free and snuck off to the bathroom. It felt wrong to even let her touch me. She had this conception of who I was in her mind — just like I used to — but that person doesn’t exist. I’m a failure, a hack, a fraud. And that’s all I’d ever be. I stared at myself in the mirror, tracing the unfamiliar lines on my face. Poking at the bags under my eyes. Hating what I saw, and hating even more what I couldn’t see.

I mimed a gun with my fingers and put it against my head. Cocked the thumb, grinned my best phony smile, and BLAMO.

“Honey, can you get me a soda on your way back?” I heard from the living room.

But I couldn’t take my eyes away from the mirror. My reflection showed a crater in the side of my skull where the imaginary bullet entered. Blood, fragmented bone, and fleshy gray lumps splattered across the bathroom walls, more gushing from the exit wound on the other side of my head.

“Ooh and one of those Nutella cups,” Joana added. “Thanks, honey!”

I traced my fingers over my temple, withdrawing them clean. My reflection still wore the phony smile, although it was barely visible now under the torrent of blood flooding down its face.

“Two years, maybe less,” came a voice. I spun, startled, unable to find an orator in the empty bathroom. “First comes the depression. Then the withdrawal. Joana will pretend she’s just going to visit her family for awhile, but you’ll know she really just can’t stand being around you.”

My bloody reflection was talking to me. That’s normal. This is fine.

“She’ll expect you to call and explain what’s going on, but you won’t. She’ll extend her trip, thinking you just need time to yourself. And you do, but just because you’re too much of a coward to pull the trigger while someone’s watching. The silence will become too loud, and before you know it…”

The bloody figure mimed a finger to its head, the phony smile flashing through the red.

“You okay in there?” Joana called from the living room. “Mama wants her chocolate!”

“Okay,” I mumbled, replying to both.

“Or…” the reflection said.

“Or what?”

“Or you become the best painter the world has ever known, your name spoken with reverence a thousand years after your death.”

“Okay,” I mumbled, numb to the whole show. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

“This is where most people ask ‘what’s the catch?’” My reflection’s voice was coy.

“Probably my soul or something, right? That’s okay. I’m not using it for anything.”

“You don’t have to sell your soul. Any soul will do.”

“Never mind I’ll get it myself,” Joana said. “Geez, I wish I’d married a butler instead.”

“Think about it,” the reflection bubbled rapidly, spraying blood between his teeth as he did. “You won’t be able to enjoy your success without a soul. And your wife — she was going to leave you anyway. If anything, this would spare her a lifetime of regret and guilt over your death. You owe it to yourself — you owe it to both of you.”

“I can’t give something that isn’t mine,” I replied, immediately hating myself for even entertaining the thought.

“Anyone who loves without reservation exposes their soul. Paint her — not as she appears, but as she truly is. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“What are you doing, giving birth in there?” Joana asked from right outside the door. The handle rattled. The door wasn’t locked. I leaped to stop her from entering — too slow. The door swung inward and there she stood: tank top over pajama bottoms, hair frizzy and wild, licking Nutella off her fingers. My heart was beating so fast, but as much as I loved her, I think my fear was even stronger.

Back to the mirror, I stared at my reflection. No blood. No bullet wound. Just a tired, aging face, equally terrifying in its own way.

“Come on,” Joana wrapped her arms around me from behind. “The movie’s no fun without you blubbering over the dialog.”

“I can’t,” I said, still staring into the mirror. “I have a painting to finish.”

A feverish intensity imbued my work all night and into the next morning. A drowning man struggling for air could not have done so with more urgency than the flight of my desperate brush. No thoughts endured more than a second before they were replaced by the endless cycle of anticipation and release each stroke demanded. When my canvas was filled, I didn’t hesitate to slash the lines onto the walls on either side of my easel. Then the table — the dresser — my own body a vessel to carry the glory of her design.

My brush was unconfined by any shape, but in its erratic patterns, I felt myself carving something out of nothing — something that had never been seen by mortal eye before.

In the subtleties of the blending colors, I captured Joana’s wry humor and gentle grace. Her laughter exploded like shrapnel across the space, the light in her eyes reflected in my cascading colors. The way her heart broke when her aging dog nudged her goodbye — the anxious thrill of stepping off the plane in Paris — even her love for me and her unspoken dread of the great beyond, naked and frozen for all the world to see.

Paint beneath my fingernails, in my hair, blazoned across my body, a testament to the frenzied passion which had possessed me. Though working alone, I danced with Joana the whole night through. I have never seen her more plainly nor loved her more strongly than those forbidden hours, and not until morning’s light did I stop to understand what I had done.

‘Are you insane?’ That’s what I was expecting to hear. Any second the door to my studio would open and Joana would see the chaos I had the audacity to unfurl. She’d laugh at me, making a thousand playful guesses at the madness which leaked from my mind all night. We’d both laugh, then she’d say something like ‘I’m just happy to see you enjoying your work again,’ and offer to help me clean. That’s how kind she was: when I did something stupid she’d be there to help me fix it, no pointing accusation or blame.

Maybe I really was insane. But either way, she couldn’t fix this one for me.

She didn’t enter the room. Not in the kitchen making her coffee, not in the shower singing herself into lucidity. Joana never got up that morning. She said she wasn’t feeling herself, and I was too much of a coward to tell her why. If I’d taken a break in the night to check on her, I might have noticed the rot that had already started to set in. She managed to prop herself up on her elbows, leaving several layers of flaking skin on the pillow. Ashen cracked skin, yellowed eyes, balding patches where clumps of hair had already started to fall — my wife was still in my studio where I’d captured her. The woman struggling for breath was nothing but a stranger to me, and I left her without a word.

I slept little and ate less. I sought only to paint, vainly trying to recapture the intimacy I’d felt with her the night before. There was a brief thrill as I marveled at the dexterity of my fingers, although they lacked the passion that haunted me before. I could trace every mental image I dared conjure and map them flawlessly onto the canvas, but they were dead things being carved into a dead world.

It didn’t take long for me to sit back in exasperation. I had the technical skill to conquer any challenge, but it wasn’t an infernal magic which had possessed me the night before. I knew at that moment that there was nothing I could ever create that was more beautiful than the pandemonium of Joana’s soul. I heard that hollow thing call my name from the bedroom with a voice like wind through dry leaves, and Heaven and Hell as my witness, I wept for what I’d done.

“Give her soul back to her,” I begged the aging face in the mirror. “Take mine instead —”

“What an ugly painting that would be,” the demon with my face replied.

“Then another — it doesn’t matter whose. I’ll give you as many as you like!”

“Does another love you as she did? Have they exposed themselves as she has done?”

I had no reply to give. Coward that I was, I merely returned to my painting. Lifeless hollow forms came marching through my work, each accompanied by the soundtrack of my wife’s body slowly deteriorating without its soul. Each time I looked at her there would be another piece missing: fingers decomposing and littering the mattress around her, cheeks worn so thin that I could see her blackened teeth and languid tongue even when her mouth was closed. I’d listen to her moan while I worked, always stealing longing glances at the portrait of her soul splashed across the room.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I set fire to that place with her inside. And watching the smoke curl into the night sky, all that’s left is to hope her soul escaped its prison and is now soaring somewhere with its dignity returned.

As for me, I returned to my work. Until the day I paint something so marvelous as to trick some poor innocent into loving me. Then I will paint what I see, and sell them until Joana is home again. 

[somethingineedtodo-blog]

About me?

My name is *E* I’m a 20 year old male and this is my very first time here on Tumblr, this is also my first time online in almost a year*

I would currently describe myself as a very quiet, reserved, intellectual yet very insecure guy.

My interests are music (drums and piano), languages, photography, singing, psicologhy/human behaviour and helping as much as I can to other people.

Well, I’ll keep it super brief, but this is an overall resume of my life starting at 8 years. 

8-10 Years. 

- First of all let me start saying that I do not live in the prettiest place of the world, there are lot of gangs and is a common occurrence to get mugged, beat up, threatened or even killed. -

Due to the nature of the place i was brought into the world and other things, my parents were always very dire with me for me to do excellent in school from the very beggining. 

My father comes from a bad place-family, he ran away from his home at age 10, didn’t even finished elementary school but yet he managed to learn a decent job (he is a mechanic), he is a class A- worker, an old fashioned man. 

I have nothing but the outmost respect for him for what he has accomplished with the very few tools that he has... but that’s it. 

My mother on the other hand comes from a decent family, yet she didn’t finished elementary too, she has had a lot of “jobs” during her life, nothing serious.

Despite their excessive pressure i managed to always be on top of every class, i was super participative in all the school activities, yet didn’t had any friends, sometimes i felt like a robot, but a very intelligent and cool robot.

Even at that short age i remember constantly spacing out and getting lost in my head for a lot of timel, having a lot of thoughts and questions about life, existence and things that i believe right now are were not a common thing at that age. The things that i remember asking myself the most at that age are: “Is being good at school really going to guarantee me a succesful life?” ”what does“succesfull” mean? does it mean having a good house, car, material possesions or does it mean being happy with myself while at the same thime contributing something positive to those around me?  “are succesful and happy two different things?” “what if im not happy?”  “how do i know if im really happy?” I remember in vivid detail watching other kids playing football and then out of nowhere they started to fight while i was just... away, away in a corner just observing. 

I had two things “clear” in my mind. 

I had to be good at school and nothing else, i couldn’t afford to lose focus on some other thing because i would get in trouble with my parents. 

The place were i was living wasn’t a place for someone like me, I didn’t wanted to do “bad” stuff nor having to do with those things in the slightest way (As a result of this i pretty much stoped talking with everyone in the area and that got me into a lot of troubles even back then, constant threats, stealing my money, bullying, etc etc, but i didn’t even minded it, it felt somehow natural and i developed this state of insensibility and numbness toward those psicological abuses and the people (15-20yr old guys) that were doing it)

And then it was my house...  Things were not okay at my house.  My dad despite being an awesome worker and always providing what he could to the house... he was an alcoholic and abused my mother physically and verbally all the time in front of me, my mother on the other hand was just “numb” and didn’t even cared, she only cared about serving him and doing good in her “job”.  One of the “fondest” memories that i have of my “family” was in one christmas...  They were arguing... badly.  My father was drunk an started yelling while my mother was just preparing the dinner... and i was just watching them... not knowing what to do... nor understanding what was exactly happening because from my perspective they had nothing to be figthing for...  Thats when i turned on the Tv and the first thing i saw was the “Tom And Jerry” show... i looked up again to my parents and i don’t know why but i found  such a resemblance in how how “Tom and Jerry” and my parents were acting...

I just thought to myself...  “Tom and Jerry hate each other right? So that means my parents must hate each other?”  And i toldto my parents with a cold dead face but with tears in my eyes...  “Why are you even married...?  Went to my room... and cried my way to sleep... at age 9.  The days passed and nothing changed drastically... 

My parents noticed that i didn’t go out and that i was turning into a (in their words) “very weird and lonely kid” so they decided to buy me a PS1 for me to do something else besides just studying and “mumbling, humming, and hitting things with my hands making senseless noise”.  I played for quite a bit and loved it... not because i liked video games in particular but because it was a chance for me to develop my hand-eye cordination and to learn another language (Yes, english is not my primary language, in fact i learned everything i know through video games and music, i have never had a formal -english ed in my city is a joke- or decent class, but i plan to enter one in this year”) I played with that thing hoping to be able to understand everything that was on the screen, understand the music, and be able to hit things as fas and precise as i could (rithym and figthing games).  It served me as an escape from the arguments and the screaming of my parents too, another thing that i remember quite vivid is my father and his cop friends being drunk and shooting some guns (that are supposedly for cop use only)... he was too drunk that he ordered me to shoot the gun, i couldn’t say no despite knowing that was such a dumb and clearly dangerous thing to do. I did, but i was so upset that i called another cops, he found out and well... throwed me a cup at my head and ever since... he and I... well our relationship since that day is complicated to almost inexistent (I’ll elaborate more on that later...). 10-15 Years. Despite both of my parents losing their jobs and us as a “family” starting a “family business” -food truck at a flea market- and me having to work almost everyday i managed not only to be the best of my school but also securing a place in the middle school of my choice due to my grades... but most importantly me asking directly to school principal.  I felt very happy with this achievement in my life... seemed like i was finally going to escape from various things such as bullies, drugs and such and i WAS FINALLY GOING TO BE ABLE TO TALK WITH SOMEBODY ELSE, to have “friends”, to go out and play and not feel like a total weirdo because of the constant words of my father.  Talking about him... he and i drifted away completely... as i grew older and started to voice my opinions a lot more he was more and more convinced and expresed that i was (and I quote) “Not like him,and not his son at all”.  What kind of opinions am i talking about? “It’s okay for people to be homosexual, a certain preference (that does not even affect us directly) should not affect how we see or think about those who surround us, being homosexual does not imply that you are a bad or a “distasteful” person... i think that kind of judgments are far beyond race, color, sexual preferences, likes, dislikes, etc.  It’s your actions and the way you affect society what determines if you are a “bad” person.  This lead my dad to think that i was starting to (in his words...) “transform” into an individual with sexual preferences towards guys, so he immediatly started to talk to me about sex... in such an uninformative and rather rude way... objectyifing women almost all the time and using words like “fuck” or “cunt”. (On a side note, my father is not religious at all, so his (quiet obvious if i must say so...) hate for homosexual people has nothing to do with religion at all... he really hates gay people, he calls them by such horrible and disrespectful names sometimes...wich bring us to the other opinion...  “I dont really see what’s the point on being excessively rude with words, I don’t see what’s the point on cursing so much, wouldn’t be better if we could talk and express our thoughts without the use of such pointless words? wouldn’t we sound better?”  This led my father to believe that i was giving him orders.  And as a result it deteriored our relationship even more.  And then... the final straw.  I started to voice my opinions on how he treated my mother and women overall. I was starting to defending her if you like.  He obviously didn’t liked that and this lead us to so many arguments and fights where the phrases “What the fuck do you know about life” “What the fuck do you know about women” “You don’t know anything you don’t even have any friends, you don’t even have anyone to talk to” were pretty common.  Despite all this i loved him and i was hoping he someday would start to change, not even for me or for my mother... but for himself.  His words obviously hurted me so bad everyday, i cried... a lot.  And crying for him was a weakness and he didn’t hesitated to say it whenever he saw me crying over one of our figths. Our allegattions got to a point were i didn’t even tried to say a word... i just was listening to his words and i didn’t even cared... thus i stoped talking with him.  There’s where my mother started to genuinly worry about me, because i always looked so tired and beatdown, she started to talk to me a lot more and whenever i returned from school she always asked me “how my day was”... i don’t know if it was too late or what... but it felt werid, like it was forced or something, so i just said the strictly neccesary. I started middle school and things were different for a change...  The whole zone was different, there were guards, there was order and “peace”, also the guys and girls over there seemed different... like they had interests and did some other “cool and interesting things” like sports, playing an instrument or things like that.  I loved that.  And for once in my life i felt quite at peace, but i couldn’t talk with anyone.  I didn’t knew how to do it, i felt anxious all the time and i had nothing in my head... “just do good in school” “you are returning to your home regardless...”. Fortunaly for me there was just one guy and one girl that were somehow able to go trough the mix of my insecurity and me not talking at all... i don’t know what they saw on me or what lead them to talk to me... one ended up being my 1st girlfriend (trough 12-14) (i don’t talk with her anymore due to how things happened...) and the guy as of today remains my best friend. That girl was very special for me... She was my introduction to so many new things. Trust, actively talking with somebody, a lot of new stuff (music, sports, knowledge etc) that i was totally ignorant of, sex and of course “love”. I GOT TO OPEN A VERY BIG PARENTHESES HERE. (Yes, i know that those things might seem totally rushed for a 12 year old child, and yes, i do agree, in fact if i could i would do things totally different, but i think i did things like i did because i didn’t had a good guidance, i didn’t had good advice per say, i didn’t even knew how to act or what to say... i just kinda went with the moment with the best of my judgment and the logic that i had, do i regret it? maybe some things, but others taught me valuable lessons at such a young age. Do i think it is right for a 12 year old to get introduced in such things as sex, “LOVE” (*big laugh*) or such complex topics as those? Absolutely not, i wouldn’t want my kids to experience those things.  Now i know that i might sound super ridiculous talking this way about my 12 year old self, maybe i didn’t word things like i do now back then, but the feeling remains the same.  So yeah.... back on.  This girl and i developed a quite unusual relationship, mainly because we understood each other so well (his dad died because of alcohol poisoning and her mom was the only family she had) so as soon as i heard her story i could relate, i had this feeling that i should protect her, i didn’t quite knew why, i just felt it, and so we became “very close friends”. The time moved on and she helped me to get out of my shell, to start talking with more friends, we spent so much time together alone doing homework or listening to music just laying in the floor in her house, because her mother was working and my parents thought that i was with my other friend (wich they got to know, but as of this date they don’t know a thing about this girl) The things in my house were just falling apart, to the point were i made up excuses like “i have to do extra homework” in order to be as little as possible in my house and more around my friends and her.  Despite all this i still maintaned excellent grades and i was still very participative in extra curricular things in my school such as poetry, music and such, but it was around 12-13 were something started to feel weird, i started to gradually lose interest in school and started doing it “just because i would get into serious trouble with my parents if i didn’t deliver them good grades” and that feeling was growing stronger and stronger, to the point that i was in a bad mood all the time, i once again stoped talking with everyone except this girl.  This thing got into my head so bad  that i yelled at my biology teacher (wich was my favorite assignment) one day without any apparent reason and started crying desperatly in his arms as he was trying to comprehend why i was acting like that all of the sudden... he asked me “Are things in your house ok?” And i just didn’t respond.  That day something snapped in my mind. I’m not quite sure what, but ever since that day all i can think about is how the things that surround us, everything and everyone, all the words, all the actions, all that we see and hear, from music to tv, everything that we are exposed to... how those things have such a big repercussion in how we act and feel and mostly who we end up being in life.  Time passed and to sum things up... i got my heart broken.  The girl ended up being with somebody else (i don’t like the word “cheating”) And end of story.  This is where i found out that i could be very extremist with people that let me down, to the point were i just... pretend that they are dead and that’s it, nothing more, nothing less, i end up denying any kind of relation-story and existence of people that have let me down, in fact, this is the first time that i talked about her “in depth”, with other times just being a “yes i had a gf before...” “Yes, i’m not a virgin” “Yes we were such good friends” and the “tragic story about how all ended”, to my friend and inevitably to my next Gf.  It does take a lot to let me down though, i don’t tend to hate on anyone, i like to respect everyone as much as i can, all their ideals, their decisions, preferences and such, but when somebody hurts someone without any reason... without even saying a word, without even caring about how much it could affect somebodys life... i just lose it, those type of people are not worthy of being called “humans” because humans are not supposed to be like that, not even animals are like that.  This obviously added up to the issues in my house into my head, made me feel not wanted or not worthy at all, without even an explanation of what i had done wrong or anything like that, it was painful, yes it was, but at the same time the thought of “this was your first time, this was just your first love, it was obviously not going to work out” remained in my head... the thing is... i do know that things are not supposed to work out the first time... but it wasn’t the fact that didn’t work out what messed me up, it was the “how” things ended up not working out what really affected me.  Either way, it cost me a lot to got over that but thanks to a couple of friends and a new hobby i got introduced to thanks to one of them (drums) i could do it.  Fast forward to the end of the second year of middle school and there i was..  Still being the best in the school, but without any kind of fullfilment or sense of actual pride for it, not even doing it for the sake of “learning” or enjoying it.  -Even though it never got clinically confirmed or anything like that at that time (mainly because my parents never had interest in therapy/dental care plus we couldn’t quite afford it at the time)  i think i have been suffering from severe depression from that point up until this day (were i can now say that yes, i’m seeing a neuropsycologist and im under treatment)- Thing’s got way worse when i broke my wrist one day playing football outside in the flea market where my parents and i went to work on the weekends, i took that day “off” and started to play football with some random strangers in an open field, i fell off and landed badly and broke my left wrist... i quickly went back to the food truck with my parents expecting to leave as soon as possible because my “S” shaped wrist... But no, they told me that i had to wait 2+ hours until they finished some stuff... and yes... i waited there, in pain and trying not to scream my lunges out.  All that was going trough my head was “I’m not going to be able to practice the drums ever again”.  But then a random thought poped in my mind, it made me very angry and turned all my pain into straight up burning anger and discomfort and yet again numbness and it goes like this...  “WHY AM I WAITING TO RECEIVE ATTENTION FROM MY PARENTS FOR A BROKEN WRIST, IS IT REALLY MORE IMPORTANT FOR THEM TO WAIT?  SHOULDN’T I BE THEIR NUMBER ONE PRIORITY AT LEAST NOW?  2+ passed until i was finally receiving some medical attention, the rest is history, that injury rendered me useless from practicing guitar (it’s not that i can’t play it, but it hurts a LOT) and i stoped playing drums due to a mental block that i self imposed in my brain. I felt so bad that whole year i was in a cast, that was my first birthday that i didn’t feel like celebrating, in fact that was the start of me feeling certain aversion or repulsion towards my birthday, i spent that day alone, just listening to music all day and laying in my bed.  15... That age marks the age that i had my first beer. Why?  I don’t know.  I certainly didn’t do it because i was feeling ok.  Like i previously said... my dad was an alcoholic, i’ve seen how it can change somebody so quickly, making them senseless pieces of meat or straight up useless sacks of organs.  So let’s just say that i’ve always had a certain depiction of alcohol in my brain since i was a little kid... it’s bad and there’s nothing benefitial about it... sure it can help you to socialize with certain kind of people but yeah... it’s not my thing, i even used to call beer “the devil’s piss” when i was a little kid... So how on earth that very fabric of myself got broken that day?  Easy.  I wasn’t feeling alright, i felt like i wanted to cease to exist or just go to sleep and never wake up again.  Even my friends (who were super cool about me not wanting to drink a drop) acted very surprised when i just grabbed a 40 and chugged it all without even hesitating.  All of them asked almost at the same time... are you ok?  I just responded yeah, i just wanted to know what is it about it that you like it so much,nothing else.  One of my best friends (who knew just a fraction of the things that were happening at my house and how i felt overall just looked me in the eye and prounonced a sentence that i think i will never forget: We both now why you are drinking... and it’s not the way.) I just kept drinking.  And so i started (without knowing) to be an alcoholic at the age of 15.  I was known for being a “tank” a term i think is associated with how fast can you drink or something, i don’t know.  But something very weird happened, i never got a hangover, i never passed out, i never even went to bed, i just remained silent watching everyone sleep and once again getting lost in my thoughts, istarted to have problems with my sleep schedule some days only sleeping 2 hours, and i was not longer spacing out... i was straight up “blacking out” (having episodes or lapses of time were you don’t remember what you were doing or saying)and i started to have delusions of somebody following me, started to talk with myself as if i was another person and overall just drifting away slowly.  15-20 years. ************************************************* It’s been 4-5 hours since i started writing this stuff.  It’s exhausting to say the least. I’ll cover up this time-span some other day...  It’s the roughest i think, especially last year. If someone actually reads this... thanks for your time, if you want to say something feel free to do it, whatever it is.   Do know that I’m in a “not so bad” place right now.  I’m still dealing with some old and some pretty new stuff (that is actually the reason why im creating this thing in the first place...) but the point of all this is for me to get to know me a little better, re-learn from myself and my mistakes and hopefully improve with my life from now on, i certainly don’t want to feel like i’m feeling right now forever.  And if i feel this is “something i need to do ™” (hahah) to make me feel better, then so be it...  I’ll do anything to feel happy for once.  But as of right now I’ll go to sleep.  ...Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem...