Perhaps the impetus for returning to this derelict, defunct corner of the internet is that of exorcism. Exorcism of certain parasitic demons that have been slowly but surely eroding my willpower to think rationally, day by day. It has progressed to the point where every minutiae of waking consciousness is pervaded with and afflicted by a malady of self doubt and an impending sense of crisis - all fueled by a malicious battery of pure, unadulterated pain so intense in its integrity that i think i -will- lose my sanity if i am unable to siphon it out somehow.
Maybe Dumbledore had the right idea with his penseive. Unfortunately, as an inhabitant of reality i have limited access to such a device and so will have to rely on an old companion - writing - to purge myself and re-order my life.
Such a colossal irony that this particular chapter is steeped in such agony despite how it's supposed to be a time of anticipation and excitement and optimism. Conversely, my being feels negatively retrospective, regressive, pessimistic, and monstrously scarred past the point of healing. The desire to bury this ugly, deformed orphan deep within my psyche and smother it with metaphorical piles of cushions upon cushions so as to eradicate it is so strong that sometimes i catch myself staring at actual, physical pillow cases around the house, and wishing they could work in that way.
Perhaps somewhere above the clouds Someone is shaking his head amusingly at my myopia and naivete, all the while merrily writing the next chapter in the book that is my life.