I feel guilty about everything.
Things I’ve done, things I’ve stopped doing, things I wish I had bothered to try. Every moment is burdened with regret, a tedious frustration, a crushing wish things had been different.
I am terrified of making decisions. I wish I had made the right ones. I wish I were more productive. I wish I could stop trying. I wish I would stop complaining, would stop blowing things out of proportion–like a hot orb of glass swollen to the point of bursting. It is nothing. I should not be doing this.
I haven’t got anyone to talk to. Probably because I’ve scared them all away with my whining and my indecisiveness and my constant chatter or refusal to speak. I hold grudges. I hate myself and everything I do. I’ve built an expectation that I am a go-getter, that I am proactive and I love the world and while I do love the world, I have lost the will to maintain this intensity, this level of activity.
People think I have done so much. I feel as though I have done nothing, because I have given up on so much. And I feel bad about that.
This incessant conflict fatigues me, and yet I know that there is nothing to complain about. I am not special, I can’t talk about myself as though I am unique–I am negligible. I am selfish for trying to universalize my experiences, act as though I am the status quo.
This cycle of clawing and scraping and biting at myself like an ouroboros with too many heads–a hydra that won’t stop devouring itself–persists as a staple of my daily existence. Consciousness is one of the things I value most, and yet it is a painful chore I often wish I could drop into an abyss and forget. I oft have no more desires. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to sleep, I don’t want to be awake, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to be aware. And always biting myself, fighting, thrashing and thrashing deeper into whatever pit I am making.
What is wrong with me?
I don’t really know.