I'm a hopeless procrastinator/escapist.

I know that there’s a world out there. I know I should participate.

But then it hits me; I don’t know where to begin. It’s always been this way with me, I want to do everything all at once and realize there’s no possible way me for me to have enough time. As a result, I do nothing.

I sit in fear; the kind of fear that makes your heart turn to ice; and I worry how I’m wasting my life, while at that very moment I am wasting it.

My safety is my cage. My comfort is my chain. I live in a prison of my own device. When vague memories of freedom claw their way to remind me what could be, my soul stirs. The possibilities are endless. Then it settles down, because I remember why I am the way I am.

That little spark that would bring me back to life dies, and the empty feel takes its place once again; only with the remnants of an unrealized future.

I need to be numb, or I cannot live. I need to wipe those leftover ashes.

I turn to fiction. What I dread facing in real life, I devour and forget through fantasy. A lifetime of emotions in a couple of hours, or some hundred pages. I laugh, cry, get mad and grieve; but I can stop it anytime I want.

This is my trick. I consume superficial to mix it with the genuine so they can’t separate from each other when I forget.

I write to be rid of what I cannot exhaust. I shape it and put it into words so I can be done with it.

Sharing is new. It's something I never thought I'd do, but here I am. Being here nurtures my emotions, leaves me vulnerable. It's the opposite of what I'd set out to do when I first started writing. I'm conflicted.

Maybe it's a step towards healing. Maybe there's some hope for me yet.

And maybe I'm lying about anything and everything.

Ok, that profile up there? Way too gloomy. So yeah, I'm a colorful bundle of psychological issues but come on, who isn't? Left to my own devices I have the potential to turn everything into a soppy drama drenched in blood and tears, and make fun of myself after doing it. I can make you cry and make you feel cheap for crying over that crap. So I'll try not to.

I'll never call myself a writer. I'm very well aware of that gap between me an them. But I do enjoy writing and I don't think I'm totally talentless. I will heed criticism but if my avid over-thinking has taught me anything, it's to stick to writing my own story at my own pace. No one can succeed in pleasing everyone, and you'll end up with a hot mess if you try. So while I might end up with a hot mess anyway, I will at least know it is mine.

Right, this is turning into 'dear diary'. Never give a narcissist the opportunity to freely talk about themselves. Because they will.

What I like: Escaping reality, responsibility, adulthood. Sci-fi, fantasy movies, shows, books, anime/manga. Satire. Sarcasm. Granny Weatherwax. Firefly [insert rant here].

Yeah. Me, me, me, me. I'm bored.