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I don’t fucking know.

That’s the truth.

At various times there are things I think I know, but I don’t. Not really. I’m guessing at most everything. I’m filling in blank spaces with ideas and calling it truth because the blank spaces terrify me. I don’t know anything. I don’t have any answers. I certainly don’t know what the fuck I’m doing day-to-day.

I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing. I’m trying desperately to do anything, thing anything, so as to not be terrified, and guess what? I’m still terrified. Every single day.

At least I’m just enough on this side of crazy today that I can laugh about how completely full of shit I am most of the time.

I wonder what it would look like if I ever stopped pretending with myself. That I might be in control of something. That I might know something with any sense of certainty. That I can figure out how to work things (or myself) so that I don’t have to be so uncomfortable so much of the time. That this isn’t just what life is (and pretty much always will be). I wonder what it would look like if I ever deeply accepted the truths I can’t tolerate touching for more than a split second for the fear they cause me.

I imagine I’d be free.