It’s been a while since I wrote and even longer since I stopped overanalyzing the reason behind it. I have always struggled to find the perfect harmony between screaming my opinions from the rooftops and shielding my feelings from the human eye. Nobody has never known me to mince my words but it’s scary how there is always so much left to say and to the normal conversationalist that would seem self indulgent. Perhaps that’s just the added sense of importance I attach to what I have to say, asserting itself. Have you ever clenched yourself- not just your teeth but your entire being- in order to restrain yourself when really the only time you lost your shit physically, in person, was years ago with your mother or your sister? Lately, I find myself turning into a nervous wreck inside while on the outside I’m lounging in front of the television or eating breakfast or lazing in bed. The practical side of me is insistent that it is my lack of productivity for over three hundred days that is causing this non-existent thought-no-fear to develop. My schoolteacher would probably assign this to my current ‘dropped out of college’ status. I have never and probably never will share any thing of this sort with my parents or friends for that matter. But I remember the last time I had anything honest to say and I realise I can write. I maybe an antisocial/asocial (I’m riddled by the difference, forgive me for being an imbecile) emotionally stunted jerk who is verbose and yet not but God (it annoys the hell out of me that I need to use that word to express my level of frustration considering my rather agnostic feelings on the matter) I feel understood when I write. Maybe it’s the thought that this space has next to no followers and probably the only person reading this will be me, in regret possibly once I’ve published it. I have no clue why I’m using a public domain to ramble. I sure as hell know it’s not exactly safe. Scratch that last sentence. I’m just sick of Snapchatting, Instagramming, Facebooking (I’M AWARE THEY’RE NOT REAL VERBS) constantly, bloody chirpily without a care in the world while my insides feel like they’re doing this thing called a Flying Fox we were made to do in school. I also just can’t seem to stop doing all of the above I’m sick of doing. I’m sure I sound like a perfect, first world millennial cribbing about my perfect life. Maybe I judge myself with the same eyes I judge others and that’s just brilliant, talk about a taste of my own medicine. Maybe I don’t know what to write anymore. It’s raining bullets outside. I wonder if anybody else has wanted the roof to crash in from the sheer force of the storm.