11.6.16



I can't stand to be at home anymore: I itch to push bricks through walls. I spend hours and days away, go out and don't come back. If I can find someone or some place to host me, float in suspension in their life, I can shelter in non-identity. (For about three days until expectation returns.)



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Spent a day last week moving my stuff out of a house I haven't lived in since July. It was easier than I expected, but sometimes it's easy in the short term then eats away at you the rest of your life.



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I'm increasingly frustrated with other people not reciprocating my openness. I know I'm the only one who signed on to this project, but when I own up to all the things that hurt me I guess I want the other person hurting too. Not a solely masochistic endeavor, it would seem.



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(Have I posted this before? Does it matter if I did?)




What I mean to say is: I'm hurting, and it's only me to blame; it's me doing it to myself.






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