back to the empty gnawing feeling that has pervaded my soul. the familiar and uncomfortable rush that laps gently against my very being, filling me up, rushing all across me, from the centre to the furthest corners of my body and mind. each and every thing is a hardship. like it is personally designed to insult and wound me. self pity is a bitch. i am a bitch. even while knowing better (or perhaps because of it), i let it all 'happen'. do what you want, self. or am I addressing the world, the higher being? let it be. let 'it' be. this is how i will know what pleasant times feel like. how the regular act of looking out the window at the evening sky is a singular one. the breeze flowing down one's body and raising goosebumps makes one shiver in delight. is this happiness? the feeling of realisation that you are lighthearted and floaty?
