The insufferable, inescapable frustration and sometimes disgust at the meaninglessness of everything you've written like: what is the point of this even existing—versus the acknowledgment of the process and worth/value of the steps and information and learning along the way—and also knowing that some of that *angstiness* is actually old shit that is still internalized from probably when you were a teenager and someone let you down in some big way that doesn't apply anymore and you have to let go of, and also the knowledge that not everything you write makes you feel this way but that sometimes when hormones are surging through your body nothing feels like it matches anything, and it is so uncomfortable to feel out of alignment with yourself.

Fuck.

There is nothing that makes me feel as petty and whiny and *angsty* as when I am feeling self-aware while writing, and yet I MUST.. And probably it would do me good to do so more often, and maybe in some ways to write on paper is more productive or *fulfilling* or like, more personal and therapeutic or authentic but then... there's those somethings that click in a real way, in the depression of the keys under my fingers when I barely have to think about how they need to get where they want to go. It's so fast. The feeling is so delicious.

And there's this question—that doesn't feel like a true question, or maybe THE true question, like there's a question underneath or behind it, hiding...of whether or not I am holding myself back from cultivating something MORE, if there's another way, a way that is better for me, deeper for me...

And all of this started because of this thing that was nagging at me to write about, but that is not what you are reading, you are reading something else...

So I guess what you're reading is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

huh.