High Hopes.

Where the grass is greener.

I remember being absolutely in love with this song by Pink Floyd. Maybe it was the progressive piano tones, maybe it was the whining guitar, or maybe it was just lyrics that define me. How we all have high hopes, but these things don't always have to come true for you. They don't always have such beautiful endings. I mean, if you think about it, it's those stories with terrible endings in your head that always seem to turn out right for you.

Maybe we should all just look to the end of the world, and we might survive another day.

And then you have your emotions. Fluid and volatile. They control you, possess you, and dictate the way you are supposed to behave. They never let your mind intervene when it wants to, because it knows that when you are in a situation with only questions, you are better off acting on instinct. Acting on your psyche.

Acting on idiocy.

Maybe that's why it takes control of you. Because if we were left in charge of the mind, we would arrive at nothing because there are no definite answers in this game. You will probably never find the answer. If it were that easy, I wouldn't be here staring out into the sunny day, with a raincloud over my head.

The mind remembers all your experiences. It has to. It's the one that makes you stop in the middle of nowhere to throw you a surge of pain with a myriad of visuals. It's all you. And him. And how good it felt. And how bad it felt. And how guilty you felt. And how angry you felt. And how upset you felt. And how alien you felt. And how stupid you felt. And how humiliated you felt.

And how you blogged about it.

And it loves to remind you about your mistakes, at any moment in your life. As soon as you think about something beautiful, it stabs you in your chest with an emotion, that leaves you dangerously gasping for air even when pure oxygen surrounds you. Soon after, the stupidity hits you. The regret. The guilt. The disrespect you have caused your body. The way you can't recognise who you are after all this has happened.

And then the questions. The thinking. The over-analysing. The incessant worrying.

The self-destruction.

I like to call this the waste-away mode, because I literally waste away. I eat till I'm bursting, I moan till I'm tired, and I hurt till I'm numb. It's a vicious phase, but I suppose self-healing was never easy. It's analogous to peeling of your dead layers in tiny tugs until you bleed no more, and then you sit alone to dry yourself out until you can walk outside into the cool air to bloom again.

Yes, it's quite like that.

Or if you prefer setting yourself on fire and rising from the ashes. Your call, really.

They say it's important for you to learn from your mistakes, so history doesn't repeat itself. They say that it's best for you to understand yourself before approaching any situation, so you know exactly how to handle its obstacles.

But you never can.

Literally, the mistake turns into a memory. It separates itself into good and bad and sits there in your head until the next mistake happens. And eventually, all you have is just a ball of mistakes, rolling itself about in your brain.

Breaking you.

Cheers.