I have come to feel comfortable in a place where I always rest my head on top of a rock that is rough around the edges and has a constantly switching temperature of cold and warm. A sanctuary where no matter how high or low the volumes of my inner battles are, it’s always quiet and dim. It’s where I force myself to think about the worst scenarios that could happen to me, and where I manipulate my thoughts into making my loved ones act in great sorrow for how the world has smacked the face of my half-baked perceptions about life.
It’s a home for a small candle that I sometimes light whenever I feel deserted by the beams of happiness that I inadvertently collect from people. It’s a friendly place that knows me, but will never tell the things that are right for me.
It’s a box of misery that will probably stay forever at a corner, but will not be thrown away because of its sentimental value. It feels like an excess in most occasions, and has a reputation of contaminating thoughts, but its companionship trumps the duration of every single identifiable emotion. It’s confusing, really, to determine whether it’s a décor hung for self-indulgence or an essential design functioning for balance. Its nature sounds overwrought, but it’s also probably just me pondering the entirety of something as simple as chipping your toe nails when they become long and disgusting, and thoroughly washing your hands with soap to remove the awful smelI off your already filthy hands.