Dear Diary, i hate it here in this head of mine. it’s perfect until my brain isn’t preoccupied anymore. think; all i do is think for hours on end, about nothing, about everything. about ideas of grandeur, and love, and conversations i’m far too much of a coward to initiate. i have a superstition that every time i think a scenario up i completely banish the possibility of that moment happening in this universe.
i’m pretty sure this is why people meditate, so their mind doesn’t control them. i would love to spend time on such an endeavor, but i lack self restraint, and if i’m being honest thinking of such ridiculous things is a guilty pleasure, no matter how bad it makes me feel.