Sitting, staring, trying to sort everything out. I could talk, but it would be senseless rambling. Incomplete thoughts. Incoherency. Maybe I can try to write and make sense of it all.

No. I can't. No sense. No rhyme, or reason. Just words, and sentences. They made sense in my head, but have no form outside of it. Like a jellyfish washed up on a beach. No structural integrity. They're not meant to be out of their natural environment. But they're poisonous. They have to be removed before they infect the whole. I must get rid of them. And keep them from everyone.

Except myself. I have to remember the bedlam from which I escaped. I must always remember. Keep it in an unused corner, and only bring it out in my darkest of moments.

There is no worse place to be than this bleak mental space.

"Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself"
- Franz Kafka