This ongoing conversation I find myself in is exhausting at best. The toiling over whether or not the future has my present’s best interest is a moving target. It feels like a depraved part of me enjoys the turmoil, anguish and uncertainty. This habit I have obtained of looking outside myself for validation is the equivalent to cancer. The constant chatter of my mind will drive me mad, or has.
Why do I fight happiness so much? What do I find so suspicious about joy?
In this race to be a “better” or “right” version of myself never allows me to be who I am right now. Why is the present so dissatisfying, yet so romantic once it turns to past? Is it that anticipation is what we lust after, not the obtainment?