Yeah.

I already just posted but I have this inner compulsion to erase what I just wrote and start over. But I won’t so I’ll just write.

I lied. I keep on lying. In my own perverse way, I like lying. There is something in a lie that makes it so much more beautiful than a truth.

In truth(ha!), I can’t even tell anymore if I’m lying or not. If you ask me if I’m all right, this will be my internal answer: “I don’t know. I don’t know.” All things considered, I don’t know if I am or not. I think I lost the ability to discern whether these feelings I am projecting are what I feel or if I’m just pretending. I might just be convincing myself that I am not happy because I want a justification for getting help. Maybe I feel that my problems are too little to be sad about. Or maybe they aren’t? Or maybe I don’t really care but I’m forcing myself to because it’s the only way I can prove that I am human.

My parents taught me to be afraid of the Lord. Don’t do this, he’ll get mad. Don’t do that, He’ll get angry. But the funny thing is, it worked. I am craving more of God's anger than of His love, because, shit, how should I know? In any case, I’ve grown feeling conflicted about religion. On one hand, it can sometimes fill me with joy, on the other hand, it mostly fills me with guilt.

It’s a funny thing, guilt. It’s the feeling I empathize with, out of any other feeling. I am an eternally guilty person. I feel guilty just for writing this disjointed essay post whatever this is. And I’m tired, and just a little bit lonely.