My head hurts.

I feel like I am missing something, like there is some knowledge resting just outside my conscious awareness. Something that will cure me. I cannot seem to think of it, it is like it is on the tip of my tongue, the tip of my memory.

Everything, and yes I do mean everything, is either to much or not enough and sometimes both. I feel feverish, like a sick person thrashing around. I yearn for something I cannot have, cannot even define. My yearming, I think, is spiritual as is my ennui. Nothing on this earth can ever truly satiate me--I feel like a hungry ghost.

I am who I am, is that not enough? For me, no, striving is as dear to my masochistic heart as yearning.

I am the proverbial angsty teenager.

I feel caught between the boundaries. Of what? Everything. Who I am and who I am "supposed" to be, where I am and where I want to be, reality and fantasy, God and Beast, thought and emotion, silence and screaming, greatness and madness, birthing a new, more whole and vibrant self and destroying what I have... I lack a sense of home, a sense of center...

I am going to the counselor at my college, but I wish I could go to therapy. I suppose I coulf, but not without drama. I love my parents, but if there is one thing they are it is dramatic. The apple does not fall far away from the tree.

I "struggle" with envy. I am an enneagram 4, so I am not surprised, yet my envy is rarely for thing s I could own nor for friends I do not have--my envy is for the freedom others seem to have. Seem to have, I am lucid enough of my envy to realize that things are not always as they seem. Yet surely there one, one individual in one class of mine who a great deal freer than me, at least from the particulsr ways I have bound myself? I choose most everything, I know. I envy the spontaneous appearance some give off. Like they are natural, real, here and now. I am nothing if not inhibited, by my self no less.

I have ways of keeping myself "apart" from my experience, my life, myself and I float, then complain that indo not connect withmlife and people and I fear, sometimes, not even myself.

I wish I were comfortable being honest about my feelings, about myself. Speak my truth, you know? I wish I could just BE, not have to constantly make a story, a narrative out of everything and wring it for every last bit of meaning about my self to chew on and identify with. In truth, I could; however, I am afraid were this condtant stream were to stop, I would cease. Moreso ever than if I lost my body. I think therefore I am.