There hasn’t been much writing here, eh? All useless scraps of memories contorted and written that won’t make sense except to myself. And perhaps, to a few others. There is no greater pleasure than that. Perhaps, there is, but we won’t go into that.
I’m getting increasingly lazier to do things. No, it’s not that. Let’s rewrite that. I’m getting increasingly lazier at finishing things. Yes, that’s it. There’s too much stuff at hand, and too many things to let go. A much unsustained interest. Perhaps that would be it. Unable to complete things. Not liking the stuff you once like. I talk to myself. I’ve a friend named Tony. Yada yada. Textbook dsm iv depression weehee.
So you see, you can twist every single utterence into a symptom and pick whatever diagnosis matches best. Like you said, psuedoscience. Go do psychology, by all means, yeah. But don’t expect people to like you. Whatever noble cause you have of sincerely helping the unhealthy ‘broken’ people, keep it. Be Alyosha, pure kind and loving, Alyosha, listening to all the Ivans and Dmitris and Smerdyakovs in the world. Hah. Poyo sungguh. Tapi seriously, analytical>clinical, if you can choose. But then psychiatry is different from psychology. I dunno.
But whatever. I’m not the issue here. Not even you. Some girl around these parts is getting increasingly emo-er. Crying in the class. Getting avoidant and all. By occupying yourself with more important responsible stuff, you’re escaping from the responsibilty towards the self. What the hell, dude? But whatever. Better than to wallow in self pity and off to path destruction.
I’m not Sick Boy, downgrading your own struggle. I’m here to tell you something, and leave you off to whatever you want do next. Sometimes throwing a few stories or two. Old stories. But we mean no more damage. No more.
Heh, banyak gila reference. Maaf.
perkaraperkara 