Monday, Apr 8, 2024 at 3:26 PM

I'm not sure why I write. I guess it's therapeutic. I probably should go therapy, but I won't. And I'm most definitely not going to take any damn "stabilizers" anymore, whatever that means. The most stable construct in the universe is indiscernable gray goo, and that's what the damn medication turns my mind into. You're alive, alright. But you aren't living. You can't, as everything is gray. I'll take the deep, pitch-black dark of the abyss over dull and boring gray every day of the week. At least it has character, and some sort of richness. It might kill you, but at least you'll feel something in the process.

I had an insight today: I seem to derive my sense of self from my mind. If my mind is broken, my sense of self is.

I guess that's the real reason behind me writing things: my mind needs to express itself, which is to say I have to express myself, as per my insight above. If I don't, I'm miserable.

If I don't manage to put the things that are stuck in my head into writing, I'll be increasingly miserable. And they are things, not mere thoughts. Real things that have to be done in the real world. Real concepts that need to be expressed. Real insights that need to be shared with others.

I think that's one of the sources of misery: me not writing is doing a disservice to the world.

And here it is again: me, caring more about the world than myself. Me, deriving my sense of self (and my self-worth) from my mind. Me, not being able to switch off and shut up my mind. Me, not allowing myself to take a break. Me, not allowing myself to be broken. Me, having so much love for the world, and so little love for myself.