Distrust

 I don't remember when I learned to comfort myself, but I don't trust it. The ways in which I do, feel short sighted. It feels as though if I rely on the current methodologies, it will result in bankruptcy. It will feel as though the cost is more than can be paid and sacrifice is the only way to make the payment. So much is burrowed from the future self, so the affordability is slim. 

But why take the risk?

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Laziness in a Pandemic

A lot of  failures are completely my fault.  Why can't I comprehend that I am the reason for my shortcomings? Different self-help books, social media...all make sense of why this would drive a  motive to become active and get one's life in order, though I can't get over the initial hill of accepting the blame. I can't look at the responsibility. That hasn't been enough o answer the call-to-action.  I have the instinct of inaction, numbing myself with distractions long enough to forgot about it, or think on different subjects, easing into the justifications that don't involve me. Let the external sources be the drivers, and that way I can feel better. That, or go get some ice cream.  I've failed my writing. I disguised it with the need to text faster, or write neater, or getting the skills to get a real job. Hell, I've convinced myself to be bum it out because I'm tired from a job in retail.  I am hella tired; though that's not good enough.  I cou...
Read more

Hurts to Have, Worries When Wanting It

 Something that's everywhere and not where at all. A lasting touch, fading into a memory.  A nightmare. A longing. A begging.  A crying.  A regret. A fire that fuels a smoldering ash. A missed detail of your favorite story. Hated for being so loving. Something filled with shame done solo. Consuming it burns, searing the skin.  Sex destroys because it breeds life. 
Read more

Learning To Like Things

 I realized the other day how important it is to appreciate what I have. The came about realizing the important of needs. They aren't trite. They are necessary. They aren't excessive. They allow for comfort.  I don't know what comfort is.  It doesn't come easy. It's always temporary and short; fleeting and short lived; ugly and destructive. The comforts that I can reach are easy to attain. Maybe that's why they don't last. Maybe that's why I hate.  Soon I'll discover what they look like. Right now, one of them is writing. I hope my writing isn't upset. I've abandoned it multiple times. Like most things I've loved — I've done it at least once.  It's time for change. 
Read more