Vivat Libertas

So this all started with an absolutely terrible event. I've lost my mind like I haven't done in a long time, so this post isn't going to be at all coherent. Have fun deciphering my mental scrabblings, guys. Long story short, everyone's alive. Everyone now wants to move on - except me. But why? you might ask. Moving on is desirable, the end goal after trauma. Not moving on is for weaklings, attention seekers and other such - to put it impolitely - absolute fuckheads that no sane human being wants to associate with. The trouble with me is that I think too much. It's certainly better than doing the opposite, but I don't think in straight and clear lines or elegant curves: I think in circles, tangles, swerving in sharply as I spin towards the centre of the proverbial downwards spiral. It's not good for me. Sometimes I think a lobotomy would help. It's especially odd, as in depression most activity of just about anything in the body is reduced - that...

I was reading this the other day. It's by Ombreon , and it appears to be about her life. I think the comments I've put will speak for themselves. My original comment was way too long [it was] , so this is a shortened version. I understand that it's supposed to be about your life, and I'll try and tread with according caution, but I can't guarantee that I won't offend you - and I won't guarantee it, either, because by laying yourself bare to the world you've invited people to judge you, both positively and negatively. I'd rather not be flamed, but if I must be then I'll take the insults on the chin. Better to get flak for honesty than to keep one's mouth shut. Long story short, the writing and emotions are both powerful, but I feel you do the mother a disservice - she's always the opposite of the narrator, and a flat opposite at that. Real life doesn't work that way - which you should know. It feels like you're trying to paint...