| About Me |
| They say all great writers are depressed. Take Edgar Allan Poe for instance. He wrote the first and best mystery stories. His poems were so self explanatory, filled with metaphoric words ( The Raven ). When you're depressed, you see a truth. Most things mean so much more than their real value. You feel so much more. Even though most of the time you can't make out what you feel, it's still there. Your attempts to find the meanings are art. Its the Blue Funk for me. Indulging in my own mood swings. Taking advantage of those hectic thoughts. I have no map to find my own sanity, but my mind is my only key. One of my most difficult issues is accepting reality. Its never good enough. Nothing is ever good enough. If I have any power in altering how the outcomes on my actions are, I expect them to be perfect. Perfection is self destructive. Unfortunately, I've grown into it, and its a habit I can't shake off. When I obssessively go over my work time and time again, a little, almost inaudible voice tells me, that I'm acting in a compulsively obssessive manner. I must stay focused. To do, and why. The reasons I look for. Just to make things easily made to perfection. If you know the faults, you know the ways to fix them. And I think...and think.. Overanalyzing, the reasons, the true reasons, and what might be the reasons... Hours later.. Paranoia creeps into my thoughts. I'm so convinced, nothing can make me think otherwise. The reasons have to be true. Whatever the issue is, the reasons i've thought of has to have some form of significance. Otherwise, why would it cross my mind? Now I'm just exhausted. Wishing a mind was like a machine, to turn on and off whenever one pleased. Here I am again, unsatisfied with reality. And it goes on again... My thoughts are splashing over and over.. I must remember, repeat, I must remember.. To just Breathe. |
| Blue Funk |
 |
|