Consequences were always these things that happened to other people, like starvation in Africa, completely disconnected from me and my life. I never thought they could be so dominating. I never thought one could eat me from the inside, a slow but desperate corrosive, digesting my sanity and my identity.

They'll sneak up on you.

It's my fault you know. Thinking of myself impermeable from reality and its demands, carrying on as if. Carefree and whistling, into my own little hell. Before the scorching, it was warm, and I make-believed that the warmth was easy and comfortable and that it would last just like this, forever.
I'm still me, in a way. My insides - my values, passions and identity - are collapsing all the time. Something grows in its place, inevitably, a regrowth to satisfy the vacuum. But it feels malignant - goddammit - I feel malignant. There's this space between my exterior and interior lives, and it's grey. That greyness seeps into both lives to the point - to this point - where it's all become space and the lives themselves are marginalized into dim caricatures of what could be.
I look in the mirror and I look back.
It's me, but because it has to be, because who else can it be.
So I'm still me. In a way.

Found this while cleaning my files the other night. . .
Highschool was a month ago. It feels wierd to not go back to the places we begin to build the foundation of our lives. I keep trying to get that feeling back. That feeling of motivation, purpose, hope, and determination. 4 years ago, i could have amounted to become anything. Today, the things i could become are so slim. Demands are so high. What to do.. what to do..