Talking myself out of buying things is hard. I don’t even want to do it. I want to buy things, I want to get new shoes and loose cardigans, I want to go on long drives and waste gas, I want to buy over-priced delicious candy, I want to buy the good whiskey instead of the cheap stuff that makes me ill.
I want to get things to pile on top of my feeling so I stop feeling them. I want to get things to fill up these gaping crevasses in my life.
I resent myself for wanting things, physical things, instead of experiences, instead of life, instead of relationships, instead of happiness. I hate myself for opting to substitute temporaryisms for happiness. I hate myself for settling for instant gratification instead of investing time, money, thought, anything and everything at all in my future.
I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I don’t know why can’t shake it this time, why I can’t even function in spite of it this time. At least before, I did things, albeit, half-heartedly, but I still did them. Now I can’t even do, I can’t even feel, I can’t even be. The only thing I’ve managed to do, feel and be is miserable and guilty, so goddamn guilty, for wasting time, money, thought, life, space, everything that could have been something but is now deteriorating into nothing because I just couldn’t.