Thoughtz.

If I melodramatically burst into tears when I am alone, what does it achieve?

When does life get good again, sans complications? When do things get easy? They don't. When do I stop thinking about every fucking thought over and over until I feel the pressure in my head begin to take over. I don't. When is it time to quit being so idiotic? When is it time to quit? When is the time to stop asking questions? Remove question mark.

I don't want to hear the words of my mistakes, but it cannot be healthy to keep them in. I want to know that I am doing things for a good reason, but no one ever knows that. Where's the magic answer, where where where.

There are epic days ahead.

Don't just stop now and try to give it all up.

So let's do it; do it real good.

Collection point A.

Retrieving my belongings from Derby is an arduous task which I do not want to do at all. Good and bad memories. Most of all, it is "The End", a concept which I am altogether far too comfortable with and tend to just brush off as if it doesn't matter, when really, it's a bit more important than that.
If I am warm, I will cry. Therefore, I am cold. Dignity.

Cork and board.

Creating a new frame for the memories I have thus far is fucking depressing. Why is it that when I set about creating something like this, my shuffled music is always somewhat more morose than usual. It seems to save them all up so that they come out in a bundle of sadness and thought.

I keep everything in the vain hope that one day I will throw it all away and be rid of it. The good and the bad. I never do. I keep it longer. The job at hand gets sadder. Escalation in the highest hopes and format.

The little things remind me of him.

Blogging

If I lived without blogging for this long, why start now?

Why not?