A Collection of Spectacles

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My former self would scream at me now for trying to apply logic to experiences that are arbitrary in nature, and about giving such a huge shit about the thoughts of others, when I should really be focusing inward. Because now all I do is question what I do, I question whether I’m anything worth anything, knowing it’s a silly thought to have, but what do I do? I’m not going to deny myself a feeling. There’ s no reason to. Anymore.

I was more honest in impulse, (and I was going to add another part of to this sentence, something metaphorical, you know to hide my true thoughts, but I don’t know which thoughts are worth having and which ones aren’t).

Let’s try backtracking though. No thoughts, or second thoughts, no first thoughts at all so I won’t have the chance to have second ones. I’ll want. And I’ll act.

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In an effort to become an honest reporter, and in the spirit of full disclosure, my mom brought me to “talk” to someone last week. I can ramble on for a whole session, and she writes things down on a notepad, says, uh huh so they really don’t understand you. She asks if there’s any history of mental illness, and I say, probably on my dad’s side, but none of them have ever done anything about it.

I wonder, why their quirks are so apparent to me, why I even notice them. 

Something in me wants to know if everyone believes that life has a surreal quality sometimes.

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