I wrote this poem one time (…at bandcamp…sorry couldn’t resist) and it talked about how the real me was struggling to be free. I’m not sure that’s what’s going on lately, but I definitely feel the struggle. I’ve always been one to analyze things, whether it be my actions or someone else’s. Supposedly it helps me deal…I can run off an entire hypothetical/imaginary analysis of some situation or statement, to help me with something and then the reality is so different. I’ve noticed lately that I’m trying to pinpoint the origin of my thoughts/feelings/actions. I refuse to let everything come from my mom’s death. So when I have a thought or when I do something that’s…idk…borderline ridiculous, I’m like- why am I doing this? Does this have something to do with my mom? Then I’m like no…it doesn’t…you’re just being selfish or something. But the truth of the matter is, sometimes I really don’t know. And this not knowing where it is coming from, my inability to pinpoint? Not cool. Makes me feel crazy on a number of a levels because I can’t have something solid to explain WHY. And I need that.