#not that i was capable of giving myself any kind of restorative rest anyways (bedrotting my behated)
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why do people tell me that I love so (and sometimes too) much but it never quite feels like it's ever enough
#plinking#and yet for all that i still haven't produced anything tangible that would actually make their lives better#fields of abandoned projects#grown and wilted by the inconsistencies of hyperfixations#maybe its rotting me too#when i still used to bake my mum would pass along comments from her coworkers who ate my baking that they could taste the love put into it o#or something#my near constant baking was likely driven by bupropion induced compulsions to do#with the exception of some tweaks i made i followed the recipes to the letter with an accuracy of ±1% by mass#never really figured out if that particular compliment was like just a platitude people do when they get free baked goods#or if love is a tangible quality i happen to infuse into stuff i do or make#idk#feeling myself getting unstable again#the despair has been bubbling into anger and my internal lockdown has already been triggered multiple times over the past few days#but i cant give myself rest until i can see that she lives again#not that i was capable of giving myself any kind of restorative rest anyways (bedrotting my behated)#even when im at her bedside theres scarce little i can do to comfort her and it fucking sucks that the most that can be done are small#distractions from her pain#i cant even hold her like we used to for her safety#still the promise must be kept
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