Aside from the typical, tangible and physical - my top priority is to lessen the pressure I place on myself. My expectations of myself teach others to expect too much from me too. The last couple weeks have been utterly intense. The emotions felt, the words said, the truth revealed. The epiphanic daze. Like a series of revelations that no one asked for, but can not be ignored. I ask a lot of myself and I take a lot from myself. I am harsh and cruel to myself. I don’t want to be. It has become habit, cyclical and common. A reaction to the highs and lows. I am allowed to hurt AND heal. I am allowed to think and feel and figure it out- slowly if I need to. Quickly in ways that make sense. You can not rush honest acceptance. You can not hastily become who you want to be. Limits do exist. Denial of them breeds irrational becoming. I have sacrificed myself relentlessly over the last few years- be it through drugs or enveloped in others or in distraction or comfort. Discomfort is nothing to fear. Ego dissolution to the hum of melancholic melodies. The rhythm of rapture. The lack of closure must be closure enough now. The uncertainty is a new home. Not eggshells but sharp glass. I don’t know what I want and that is an answer in its own right. I don’t know what is true so I must find my own. The part of myself that feels like home and honey and bliss. The grey area, is it thick smoke or wet fog? When it clears what will really remain? I can’t control whether or not I will find myself in a similar situation, with similar people, familiar heartache, familiar doubt. Comfort isn’t always ideal. Is there a reason things like this always seem to happen? Is the common thread me or a lack of? Woven mysterious. Entangled entrancement. Time always tells, but what is wasted is never returned. Not in the same shape. Not in the same time. I am here and I know that. Home is a myth. A story we tell ourselves until something more enticing comes along. I will find solace inside and it will be enough. Hard on, not myself.