Control

I keep wanting to write something.
I start.
And it gets really long.

And it says more about me than I want to. So I keep deleting it, and everytime I type on here, it keeps coming out, and it gets longer and longer each time, until I'm too tired to write.

I'm at 161.2.

It feels damn nice.

I'll try to write again when I come home. See if I can't get this demon out of my head, without spilling my life story to everyone. Because it feels like, as I strip the pounds off my body, so too am I stripping the protection off over my soul.
And I know before migraines, I get really rage filled.
And after them, I get either super depressed, or super thoughtful and sort of melancholy.

And right now, I don't know how I feel.

Starved for human interaction?
It's hard working graveyards, when all your friends are asleep.



I think I'll come home after the gym and work my novel.
Back to a world that's not quite as quiet as this.