my experience in reading oyasumi punpun can be summed up with saying that i spent half the time crying because it was awful, and half the time crying because i was grateful this didn't happen to me

i mean granted my particular situation wasn't exactly the same, ever, i got help

but dear god, dear god, that could have been me

yesterday i felt proud of myself because i got my shit together and got a vaccine.

which is pretty pathetic.

but i suppose it's better to feel proud about pathetic things than about nothing at all.

I should've known better than to expect this to last.

What if I just stopped being afraid of people. Online and offline. It would make so many things easy and simple! Wouldn't that be a thing, my life being easier!

But no, I'm going to panic about talking to someone who has explicitly expressed interest in talking with me instead. Because they're definitely lying and/or are going to think less of me the moment I type "Hello"!

Clearly, the best course of action.

It's embarrassing, really. The mental gymnastics I go through to make myself happy and how easily all my reasonings collapse after a few hours. It's almost like there is a magical hour of the day after which I simply cannot be happy. Really, really embarrassing.

I envy people who feel comfortable showing more extreme emotions online. I do it sometimes, yes, but I always feel embarassed to be too happy or excited; or ashamed and guilty if I'm sad. Perhaps I will never stop thinking my emotions, feelings and opinions are a burden on people.

I have come to view my happiness as a structure.

I do not mean to imply it is fake; rather, it is made of stones and bricks. The stones come in various sizes: they are large ("I have found a job with little trouble"); medium ("I have spent a nice afternoon with a friend"); small and silly ("I saw something funny on the Internet").

I take the bricks, I align them, I build. I build slowly and carefully, with no tools or mortar (the mortar, in this metaphor, is therapy and medication, which I need and want and can't have as of yet). Eventually, a structure emerges. It is uneven and badly constructed, because the materials are of low quality, but it stands.

But even the slightest error makes it all come crashing down. On my head, everywhere, and next thing I notice, there is no structure, and the bricks are gone. I give up, then. I give up and say that I will never build again, that there is no meaning to it, it's going to crash again.

A few days pass and I start gathering bricks again. The hope returns, for a while, and I build. I wonder how long it will stand, this time. Yet, I build.

I feel a tangible bundle of unformed thoughts sitting in my chest. Right between my lungs. It's there, it has been for several days, and I don't know what it wants from me. It just sits there and gives me a feeling that there's something it wants me to say or think, but I don't know what. It's irritating.

(Sometimes I really want to talk about things that go on in my head but I have a lot of trouble wording it in a way that doesn't read as incredibly rude and pretentious to me.)

I want to tell you about Amsterdam.

( This gets emotional. )

itp: i mad over whoever was spilling sand and salt over frozen walks in the centre today not caring about the up-/downhill way a couple hundred uni students have to take every day, despite making every other road in the area usable

alternatively, itp: i mad over slipping and landing on my ass twice

things this entry is not: a proper entry
things this entry is: a list of my xvi century french lit reading

( welp )

there will be things here, eventually.

eventually.