My lack of rereading my own writing recently is becoming blaringly apparent to me. I know I am only writing to try and release the pressure I feel. The pressure that only I am placing on myself yet I cant lift it. Its like I am allowing myself to be crushed under a boulder I placed on me. The feeling is surreal in a third definition of free dictionary masochistic way. Its as if I wont allow myself to feel peace and joy. The second I want to say how happy I am I let something ruin it. I let myself be enveloped in overwhelming things that should be sitting on shelves. My life feels unsorted. As if there are books and papers and clothes strewn everywhere in representation of objects and life situations. An yet my room is rather neat minus the notes to study. The feeling in unsettling. Its lonely. And yet I only want to be alone. I am avoiding even leaving this slightly rectangular shaped place because inside it there is only a faint sound of rain and the obvious sound of my records. It is a haven. A haven where the only one that can hurt me is myself. And that is possibly my biggest enemy. I need a break from my own head. 

Let me clarify. I have a life that is above adequate. I just feel inadequate and continually find myself in unfortunate or less than ideal situations that become overwhelming and all encompassing. This week has been full of such situations. I think I could use a few weeks where I only have good karma. That would be pleasant. But maybe I am too scared of being happy to let that happen.