Yeah. It is just true that I feel horribly uncomfortable in my daily life.
Strike that, as the guilt sets in: not horribly uncomfortable. More like: How the Fuck did I ever land up here?
That's the feeling? The unreality of my reality. Day and in and day out, details added and whatnot, and still, there is no reality in my reality. It is still strikingly alien.
It hasn't always been like this.
Maybe I gave up too much on my cliched dreams.
Maybe I gave in too fast to the stupid rush of possibility, without lining out a real plan.
Maybe I'm just doing okay, and this is what doing okay looks like. How fucking depressing is that?
By any objective measure, I am, indeed, just fine. Better even.
Classic dreams man, just classic stupid longing for the ease of creative inspiration.
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