Life is, to some extent, an extended dialogue with your future self about how exactly you are going to let yourself down over the coming years.

How many times have I failed before? How many times have I stood here like this, in front of my own image, in front of my own person, trying to convince him not to be scared, to go on, to get out of this rut? How many times before I finally convince myself, how many private, erasable deaths will I need to die, how may self-murders is it going to take, how many times will I have to destroy myself before I learn, before I understand?

There is a sense in which I am pretty sure this makes no sense. I don't know where this is going. I don't know how it ends.

Sometimes when I'm brushing my teeth, I'll look at the mirror and I swear my reflection seems kind of disappointed. I realized a couple of years ago that not only am I not super-skilled at anything, I'm not even particularly good at being myself.

I had forgotten: this is what it feels like to live in time. The lurching forward, the sensation of falling of a cliff into darkness, and then landing abruptly, surprised, confused, and then starting the whole process again in the next moment, doing that over and over again, falling into each instant of time and then climbing back up only to repeat the process.

You want to tell a story? Grow a heart. Grow two. Now, with the second heart, smash the first one into bits.

You can just sit in here, impervious and invisible. So invisible you might even forget yourself.