Next year I will not be the self of this year now. And that is why I laugh at the transient, the ephemeral; laugh, while clutching, holding, tenderly, like a fool his toy, cracked glass, water through fingers. For all the writing, for all the invention of engines to express & convey & capture life, it is the living of it that is the gimmick. It goes by, and whatever dream you use to dope up the pains and hurts, it goes. Delude yourself about printed islands of permanence. You’ve only got so long to live. You’re getting your dream. Things are working, blind forces, no personal spiritual beneficent ones except your own intelligence and the good will of a few other fools and fellow humans. So hit it while it’s hot.
One of the things I hate is that if you aren’t bipolar, OCD, autistic, ect, it’s considered perfectly acceptable to be all “ha ha I look autistic” “feeling a little bipolar today”, but if you actually do have a mental disorder, then god forbid you talk about it, you attention-seeking over-dramatizing romanticizing monster.