None of this makes sense. It’s all just fractured thoughts:

A mental breakdown is more like an incredibly intense massage…and once it’s over you feel immensely better. It was less like a break down and more like a vastly painful purging of the inner darkness within. For someone who hinges on emotional rides, it’s incredibly fascinating.

My heart is an anchor. An incredibly dumb organ. Powerful…primitive…full of only desire and scars. The mind

In resisting my fatal disease, it is less about making my heart smarter…and more about fighting my heart with my mind.

And I find it’s the only way I could ever possibly find any feelings reciprocal. No one’s heart is quite as dumbly, overhwelmingly powerful as mine.

And it begins to make you wonder the origins of love. Does one really ever love one thing? Is a human being capable of non self-referential love? One loves nothing. One loves the idea of something. Or what something means to them. Or represents to them. Or what meaning it has to them. In refence to themselves. One loves another for how they make them feel.

Which I suppose would mean that abusive relationships, such as my love for Campbell…are directly a product

And then I wonder what part of my heart is product and what part is precedence. If my heart is solely the makeup of chemical functions…of a series of reactions in a chain of events. If I am this way because of my father. Because of the men in my life. Because of the numerous influences in my life and on my heart. Or whether my heart truly was created this way. Predisposed to be mangled and torn. Surely it cannot…surely I was born with a whole heart, and it was then broken and mutilated…plunged into coronary agony. But then really that just disproves everything I hold dear about my views on predetermination. No no. It cannot surely be predetermined. Yet it is the product. But a product, not of predisposition…but of chaos.

One day. Everyone will be insane like me.

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