ten.

Oh, this mangled mess we call life. I feel sad, but I’m not upset. I feel stressed, but no amount of work accomplished will levy the feeling. I feel tired, but I’m too awake to actually fall sleep. I’m bored, but I don’t want to just sit idly because I have nothing better to do. Predictions? Contradictions. In a sense, I just want it all to blow over, but this is what I thrive off of. I feel like something’s missing when there’s not something to try and fix. I’m overly self-critical, but I’m confident in what I can accomplish. I wonder about the past. I’m inconsistent, but somehow completely predictable. Irregularly regular. Completely incomplete, yet oddly content. Oh, this tangled mess we call life.