In terrible shit.
Once again I let myself fall into this state of chaos and I hate myself for it. It stripped off all my productivity when I should have accomplished a lot. I had thought my sensitivity is gradually vanishing along with age, now that I cannot write as often and as freely as I used to, I had even mourned its loss, but now I realize that perhaps I am the same piece of over-sensitive shit and that in fact most of my energy has been channeled to creative activities other than writing, and that I am still, unfortunately, able to fall into such melancholic-chaotic shit of a state. I find myself crying over my musings, my writings, any random song, blaming those who made me suffer, hating myself for blaming them, and infuriated at the fact that there is no one to blame but myself, because it is solely my own weakness that I am so unhappy. Some said I exerted too much control, some said I had not stayed firm enough. I tried reason, and I tried abandoning myself to my feelings, none seemed to work. Once again I have to accept the fact that I am only fit for sorrow, of all the beauties in life. And then when the next day breaks, I will pretend to the world again that life for me is indeed happy, pretty, and ever fulfilling.