I don't get it. That need. That constant supervision of the external self. Making sure all details have been arranged and arrive. I sometimes have a dirty living space for this reason alone. I just do not care about a lot of things. I docare about the things I care about. Holy hell. I really care about those things. They are premium priorities. Prices unlisted because I am embarrassed at how much I pay attention to them. I won't admit how much those things rule. And I mean rule, in the czar sense. They have become a norm. A mix of thought and loss, separation and sections.

Maybe, that's what it is. I feel sectionally separated. Portioned.

It could be a case of introversion, but I haven't taken any tests of the Meyers Briggs standard to confirm this theory. I know it takes me a lot of time to 'digest' social experiences. Sometimes years to relay a concrete memory. To hold some perception I can recall as hostage in a particular light. It can consume me at times. Depressed by compressing files and folders of interaction.

Reminiscing breaks parts of me. To use the present stewing in my past. Nostalgia, in particular, does this in an exponential fashion. It tears. I engage with it frequently.

It's a dead end. It's everlasting avarice.

Because happiness is slippery.

It's liquidity makes it entirely allusive. It slides around from person to person basically in the same fashion as a virus. Separating the host from what they see as real. It's entrancing. It's delusional. It causes our minds to melt and remold. It's super hard to hold.

It's like our hands have been lubricated by the liquor left by life. They are incapable of harboring "happy." Squeens and squishes. It bounces and bounds into parts of our past. It changes our view of the present by skewing history. "Those were the days." Deadening without continual harvest.

This is all to say I've never been happy. Definitely not in my waking adult life. What would that even look like? A cheery Facebook post of my food or Instagramming a fucking sunset? You people make me sick. As if that's what's really going on here, you damn pretenders.

I might come off as a little unhinged. That term qualifies me as politely abrasive. In a diplomatic sense, I've become obsessed with centering the self. Trying to personally track down my person. I think that's why I love looking back, and of course, I love looking back at love. I feel like there was a distinct, pragmatic person, living through varying episodes of my existence. However, using a microscope reveals a much different diagnosis than rose colored glasses.

My scrutinized findings will most definitely reveal a much truer hue.