It's an odd sort of hurt. A dull, throbbing ache in the pit of the stomach that reflects one part apprehension, two parts regret, and a collection of smaller feelings that don't stay still enough to pin down. It's vaguely familiar but still quite new. It shouldn't be like this. Not anymore. It shouldn't take the fight right out of me the way it does. I've spent years lying to myself, lying to others through a fake smile and a generic 'I'm fine', so I should be able to force myself out of this. It's nothing, it's small fry, it's of no consequence to the greater tapestry. Though isn't it always the little things that seem all the more painful? A papercut, biting your tongue, a catch in your favourite sweater, a stain on your favourite book, a broken sole on a beloved pair of shoes. Are we all just held together by the little things, are we truly just parts that make a whole, held together with tape? You take away one little part and the entire house of cards comes falling down. Sometimes it seems more poetic to think so, easier even. Other times it's much easier to just think of a whole, existing seperate and apart. Existentialism, maybe. I don't know what I'm saying. I should be able to identify this, to deal with it. To move on. Then again, I've never been good with letting go. I've never dealt well with betrayal and change either. I'm too invested. I like to know what I'm up against, I like to face things head on, so it comes as little surprise really that my biggest obstacle is, and no doubt always will be, myself.
But enough melodrama for one evening. I feel far too violently ill to argue with myself. I blame McDonalds. When you haven't been eating properly in weeks, greasy food is not the way to go. I'm also beginning to think I shouldn't be allowed to blog after certain times. Note to self and so on.
Music: The (after)life of the party - Fall Out Boy
Mood: Pessimistic
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