There’s this thing I always used to do when I was decades younger, and I’m sad to admit that it’s a habit that clings on to my late twenties as though life itself as no other meaning.
I used to simplify things, shrinks their complexities down to a position in which my ting underdeveloped mind could perceive them, understand them, and most importantly, know.
It’s a habit that I can almost say is a reductionist approach to understanding the vast complexities of life as it has always been, and life as we’ve learned to know it through our own mode of understanding.
In other words I’ve got a habit of thinking I know it all, thinking I know more than what I actually do, and I’m now beginning to understand that it’s insidiously bad for my health.
Sometimes in order for my mind to cope, I tell myself that the depths of who I am are shallow enough for me to explore them in a day. Things are never as easy as I make them out to be in my own head, and the same goes for my food and bad qualities: I’m not as good as I deem myself to be, and my negative actions render harsher consequences than what I actually think.
Then again at times I do get angry with myself and others, because when I’m as confidently honest as I can be with myself I’m actually painfully aware of how awful my insides are; how awful my insides can be. It’s frustrating because when I do communicate my defects to others I never seem to feel the same sense of concern or appreciation from them.
It’s at that point perhaps, where I begin to convince myself that maybe this is all in my head, until somebody gets hurt and there comes the day where I find out that it actually isint.
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