Perception is a funny beast. This morning, when I was walking to the beach, in my ballcap, bikini and flannel, I looked around at the fellow early morning sand steppers. There were just a few; two families, a fitness guy, a fisherman and a handful of older women. Sitting cross-legged on a rainbow towel, writing in my journal after doing headstands, I wondered how I looked to them. Because I know if I was viewing myself, from the outside in, I would see a calm, pretty, zen woman with a chill smile for both seagulls and children. The massive unrest and dysphoria is entirely hidden.

But it’s there. Especially when I smoke, for some reason. A smarter person would just…stop smoking. But as I am still abstaining from all of my other vices, I’m holding fast to the green stuff.

I don’t even know anymore if I’m isolating myself, or if the excommunication from my old friend group is just becoming complete. I just know that I feel half removed from my life already. Like I’m in a fever dream state; reality + a few strokes from David Lynch’s silver glitter paintbrush of psychedelic angst. Why am I so mournful? I have centuries of sadness in my soul, it seems. All I do at night is cry, no matter what I’m doing, no matter what I’m watching, no matter what I start out feeling.

I need to get the fuck over whatever is haunting my heart.

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