Regression

I really don't know what to write any more. I'm struggling again!

My brain seems to have lassoed itself to a fence post and started re-runs of old episodes on a nearby rock to keep me entertained; I've found myself regressing to old ways of thinking where I escape into stories and scenarios, living various lives through adventurous tracks of thought. I won't lie, these thoughts are much better than my usual sense of lacklustre and despondency, but they aren't real. My own head is forcing me back into a nursery room of colours, toys and teddies, beyond which lies a post-apocalyptic waste that's haunted by memories of once-was and of those oppressed- those hidden in caverns I dare explore for the sake of discovery and betterment of self. I enjoy the escape but despise the impending deposition, like a king to be overthrown for abstaining from the care of his kingdom. I need to face reality and care for my kingdom. Were I to care for a kingdom, would I allow foundations to crumble for fear of the work it takes to repair them? No. So why do I allow such things to happen to myself? Why do I willingly allow myself to draw back into the safety of a pretend world to avoid facing my issues? Especially considering my matching willingness to better myself.

Sometimes I fall to my thoughts and call myself weak because I see no other reason for my behaviour, but then I realise I am strong because I choose to face these problems in hopes of stamping them out. I don't actually live in that pretend world any more because I can't afford to; if I want to make it in this life, then I need to face it and make it my own, not hide away and lose myself as I have for many years before now. There are many kinds of closets, and this one is mine. Slowly but surely, I'm edging out toward the light on the other side of the room, and when I get there, I'll be waiting for those of you trying to escape, too.