Squiting due to the sun shining in my eyes at least, the most sacred hours of the day, my bloggening time.

How inconsiderate of it! It really should have asked for my permission. But that’s typical. isn’t? All you ask for is a littke consideration on the part of a massive ba;; of hydrogen being squeezed together so hard by gravity that it forms helium and what to you get?

Nothing, that’s what. Why do things things always happen to ME?

But I am a creature of habit, so waiting until later to blog is not really an option. I have very little structure in my life and so I tend to cling to whatever structure I have.

A totally structureless life is hell. Trust me, I have tried it. Just doing whatever whenever I feel like it. And the result was not pretty.

At least, it’s kind of fun. For me, acting on emkotion uis somewhat of a novelty, and there is always a certain releif in relaxing structure and letting things fall apart.

I remember laughing as my life lost all coherence. Bye bye. Go ahead and die. I do not give a single fuck. Don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya!

That what self-destuctive euphoria is like for me. It’s the thrill that makes it a constant temptation. There is a dark joy in letting it all go and letting turn you into nothing but protoplasmic goo once again.

It’s like rock bottom. Water always seeks the lowest level it can find, after all, and so there is a sense of safety in being as low as you can go.

After all, the falling is over now. You’re at the bottom of the well. And that mean loud cruel world you can;t handle is far away at the top.

That’s a pretty evocative metaphor for depression and its deadly allure.

Good for me!

Now where was I. Structure, right.

Of course, the comfort os structurelessness is a big fat lie. Sure, it’s a relief in the short term to now have to put any energy into maintaining my shape.

But after the relief wears off, I realize my tenuous interface with reality is gone and everything seems so hard and scary because I am now a men without a skeleton, and it takes a lot of effort to do even the simplests of transformations.

Turns out that even a liquid shapeshifter who is terrified of being in the wrong shape at the wrong time and so stays as liquid as possible at all times needs some degree of permanent structure in order to survive.

It’s always our coping mechanisms that ultimately hang us, isn’t it? The maladaptations. Things that solved the immediate problem but caused far greater issues down the road.

So when I manage to put some structure into my life – the kind that lasts past my next transformation – I hang on to it for dear life.

Because I know what the structureless void is like and I never, ever want to end up back there again, ever.

That points at the fundamental problem : my inability to generate my own structure. That’s what made going back to school so enticing. School provides plenty of structure for me – call that an artificial skeleton for shapeless goo people like myself.

And all you have to do is get it started, and riding that energy to the end.

What amazing savings!

Real life is much, much harder. There’s a million open doors and far too little information to make a choice as to which one to go through.

And the thing is. I know I need to derive my structure externally. A stronger goo person would be able to use that information to go look for a good source of structure.

But I’m too scared.

Scared of falling apart when I leave my current comfortable crevice and ending up soaking into the ground so deeply that my substance is too thin to maintain me and I am gone unto oblivion forever.

Scared of all that scary stimulation out there that leaves me stressed and confused and ultimate utterly lost. That’s another way of losing who I am as my brilliant intellectual self leaves the scene and leaves me as if I was a wild animal that had stumbled into human lands and has no idea where they are or what all these lights and objects mean, and none of its instincts are working to make things any better.

What I need in this metaphor is some kind human with a tranq gun to sedate me and release me back into the wild, where things will make sense again.

I feel panicked and confused and like screaming just from typing that.

What an odd thing it is that our minds can sabotage themselves so easily.

Scared of making a choice, in case it’s the wrong one. I am making progress on that one. After all, what’s so bad about making a wrong choice? Sure, it might hurt, but that will pass quickjly and I can just shrug and try something else.

And yet, as of the writing of these words. I remain paralyzed in the headlights of life, too scared to make any kind of choice and pursue it.

When I try to choose, all I can think of is all those doors slamming shut and my being trapped by whatever choice I made and in whatever form I took to choose it.

And with all those doors, what are the odds that I made the right choice? The thought of all the other possibilities dying scares the shit out of me and gives me a profound sense of loss, almost like grief.

As though the possibilities are people dependent on me and by choosing I am killing all but one of them because they were not good enough.

And at that point, I want nothing more than to bolt back to where I was and bury myself in the deepest hole I can find and never, ever try that again.

So here I rot.

What is missing is a sense of the possibilities I am gaining.

I guess those possibilities are strangers, and the old ones are my friends because they have been around for so long.

It’s true. To be a writer, you really must murder your darlings.

It’s just that I never knew there would be so many.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.