Misery Does Not Die

Feelings are a strange thing. You have no control over them, but they are capable of affecting your every thought, every move, and every decision. You cannot live without them, but living with them creates a tortured existence so excruciating that you are better off dead.

A thin line is all that separates the direction of those feelings: think of it as an a spark of antimatter, contained in the binding confines of a controlled vacuum, maintained precariously by supposedly-infallible electro-supermagnets. One wrong move, one accidental nudge, one malicious action, and the highly destructive substance will tumble out of its magnetic prison and obliterate anything and everything it touches.

I am sick of it, so sick of it in fact that the very thought of me going through this again makes me nauseated and sick to the stomach. I swear there's a colony of butterfly pupae in my stomach, ready to pop open at a moment's notice to remind me of my numerous affective predicaments. That said, I dug my own grave many a time, due to my lack of perception, or inaccuracy of my conclusions. Other times, however, are wrought by the second hand in the clapping equation, elements of a volatile sequence that cannot be excluded.

Maybe I should throw up more defensive walls, more rivers of sarcastic wit, more labyrinths of confusion and suppression. I just might while waiting for Her, and whoever you are, please appear soon, before I become a stoic simulacrum of the futility and desperation threatening to consume all of my heart.

Damn it.