I remember this feeling lapping at my fingertips.
Too welcome a host, too accommodating of these swampy, difficult moods because I’m difficult. Always having to take the hard way, and never for any noble reasons, no, just pigheadedness and a failproof inability to recognize my own limits.
I’m not brilliant. I can be compelling, rarely. Maybe back in the day, when life was fast and shining and nothing mattered. It isn’t like that anymore and that makes me boring, and one thing I’ve noticed about myself is that there’s a directly inverse relationship between how interesting I am and the depth of my feelings.
I’m not making sense. That’s okay. Just getting it out helps.