Jeg må gå. Jeg må legge på.
I don't think I've ever felt so hollow before, and so conflicted. Driven into stasis, a limbo through a forced indecisiveness that is never mine to end, yet though I try with all my might to force to the front a dialogue that will maybe put an end to it, either with a rejoical, or a brief nova of even more misery and disgusting self-loathing. Perhaps the worst thing of all is to watch oneself become such a twisted and unrecognisable caricature. One unkown and uncharted, and utterly volatile. Places where I do not want to roam are forced upon me, and perhaps I can blame them on someone else, but ultimately they are brought on by myself. The blame is difficult to place, and I don't know if I should even attempt, but something drives me to despite my acute knowledge thar it will give no resolution to what ails me and what was mine.

I'm a sullen child crying for its toy, ignorant of the reasons why there is such an inexorable pull and desire towards what is out of reach.

Pining and suffering are such trite additions to any LJ (and life), and even though I am loathe such indulgences and pity, I am forced to them.

What a predicament.