I’ve never truly been through hell but I long for it. I romanticize the idea of extreme highs and extreme lows. The idea of feeling something so deeply that I might want to kill myself. What’s the point of being safe when it doesn’t really feel like you’re alive

The dream of inner peace is compounded with boredom and disinterest. The consistency and predictability is turning into disdain and resentment from the numbing boredom of certainty.

Is this really it? Clearly my journey isn’t over.

When I’m around you, I can find a way to enjoy the little things but when I think about us as a whole, I’m disappointed. I dont want to come back home. I don’t want to sleep next to you when I feel this way.