forcing it

it gets to a certain level of hopelessness that even real life feels hopeless.

i fully admit that all i am really doing is whining childishly with wordplay that makes it seem legit. my problems really aren't real. they're a series of unnecessary complexities by my own undoing with simple and straightforward solutions that i could achieve when emboldened by inebriation. they feel real to me. but since perception is reality, i really am fine because my suffering is wholly imperceptible.

true trouble starts when i start physically manifesting my despair.

i do my best to keep this written world separate from the world which i actually live in: the world with people i know - some aware of my thoughts and feelings here while seeing the persona i maintain when facing them. as long as i pour all of my negativity here, i manage to buy myself more time before i can really break down. i have to contain the damage within the sentences i string together.

but sometimes i have to choose between soldiering on and taking time for myself.

i can't do both at the same time. i have real world responsibilities that require time away from nursing myself.

no matter. i'm sure a few missed deadlines are immaterial.

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