Much more often than not, I prefer to immerse myself in reality than engage in fantasy. Most of the time, I’d rather be sober than be intoxicated. This is definitely the case when life is particularly good. Even when there’s nothing special going on, I find the natural world fascinating and I can get pleasure from appreciating it in whatever way that I do. When things are a bit shitty, instead of partaking in some common form of escapism, I still hang on to reality, and I think about things like the nature of reality. But then that becomes an attempt at escapism because I try to imagine an “objective” way of thinking about my situation, so that in that new perspective, things don’t seem so shitty anymore. I get as far as rationally seeing how it isn’t necessarily that bad, but I don’t feel any better.

It’s when I’ve realized that I can’t think my way out of pain, or any kind of displeasure, that I wouldn’t mind any other kind of distraction, distractability-inducing substance, or any other way of reducing self-awareness.

Writing can help sometimes, I guess. Not much, though, if I happen to be writing about my thoughts. Oh well.