Using beautiful and forlorn vocabulary to narrate your own self destruction does not change the fact that you are destroying yourself. We are not privileged to exist in well-lit vignettes framed by cinematographers or paragraphs composed for the undulation of their prose, instead we must navigate a space that is boring and gross and sweaty and expensive and whole. I used to sit in front of therapists and councillors and friends, recounting my struggles and pains for the sole purpose of impressing them with my self-awareness. I could self-psychoanalyse, I could dig down to the root of my problem and explain it with sharp prose and dry wit, I could explain exactly what I was doing wrong and what the solution was. I could do anything except feel my own feelings for what they were, rather than as reference points for some future self-reflection I imagined having.
