What was it that made me like this.

Unfortunately it is not just one thing.

But if I could point to one, it would be lack of discipline. I’ve been harping on this as the possible reason, and come to the oblique conclusion that I need death to reside eternally on my shoulder. Without impending doom, I become complacent in all areas of life. I’ve lost virtually everything, and now the chance of not surviving approaches as oncoming traffic off the horizon. Ever closer, but instead of turning around and running, I sit frozen with fear. Composing fearful journal entries, narcissistically peering at my own iniquity, as if it is fascinating, unheralded and therefore valuable. Like a rodent inside a cylinder, I then declare it is worthwhile exactly because I recognize that it is dull, mundane and useless. Or that it’s worth hinges of the degree of narcissism, in my case very high—if I peer ever so close, and express that, the value must increase. And then renege the peering entirely; it’s all bullshit; making sure to hint that if nothing else, it is poetically pleasing.

And on and on and on, as traffic approaches closer and closer and closer…