Reaching The Point Of Hyperfixation Where I Can No Longer Engage With It Due To The Nausea That I Experience

just googled my symptoms and it turns out it was boris i missed, the whole impulsive mess of him: gloomy, reckless, hot-tempered, appallingly thoughtless. boris pale and pasty, with his shoplifted apples and his russian-language novels, gnawed-down fingernails and shoelaces dragging in the dust. boris - budding alcoholic, fluent curser in four languages - who snatched food from my plate when he felt like it and nodded off drunk on the floor, face red like he’d been slapped. 

i think the hardest thing to accept is that my life is not a novel. there is no omnipotent reader rooting for me, loving me despite my flaws and character deficits. my life does not have a poetic theme or overarching narrative, and if it ends bitterly it will not be beautifully tragic or hauntingly relatable, i will just have wasted the life i was given trying to make it that way, always trying to see myself in the third person

thought a little too hard about it and now i have tears in my eyes and i feel physically ill

i wish romance was real and not just displaced longing for what was missing in the past

Um…those who do not move cannot feel their chains tbh….

to have failed is a sign you tried…. the mistakes, the relationships that didn’t make it, the job you didn’t get, the plans that fell through…. you tried, you lived, you loved.

remember what’s really truly important in life : local bookstore

but! we! cannot! simply! sit! and! stare! at! our! wounds! forever!

i started isolating myself and ignoring people as always, great to know I'll never get better