Trying to Live While Being Alive

I think I've been in a small love affair with being broken beyond fixing.

This is no good. In my mind I see broken as being romantic.

Not romantic in the "Baby, I love you" way. But in the Jane Austen way.

That way.

It's nothing close to that beautiful, though.

The truth is, it's messy. And gross. And revolting.

Pushing people away doesn't help.

Literally being the hardest person to get to know is not good.

Or not sharing hardly ANYTHING worth any significance.

And when I finally open up, you don't get a couple pieces of information at a time.

Boy, do you get flooded with depression, elation, whining, rejoicing, etc, etc.

I don't practice moderation. You either get none of my real emotion or every emotion my body possess.

This sounds so freeing and somewhat poetic or artistic or whatever shit.

It isn't.

Or maybe it is, but we just think that artistic and poetic and whatever is amazing.

Maybe the real truth is that those "artsy" people are messed up.

Real. Bad.

See? There I go again. Making being broken sound so hard and romantic and blah, blah, blah.

Oh, don't listen to me. What do I know?

My condemnation of drama comes from a drama student with a penchant for irony apparently.