I'm not quite certain if this is just another bout of my typical anxiety because it feels different yet familiar at the same time. I am so uncertain and dissatisfied over my own life. I am also aware of the fact that there is plenty more to life than what meets the eye. Drilled into myself the mindset that I should converge my focus onto securing the one and only stable thing in my life, materialistic and superficial as it may seem. But more often than not, I find the tiniest of things triggering me, in turn giving carte blanche to my emotions holding me hostage. I wish for nothing but to finally achieve that nirvana that I yearn for, and to put this endless roundabout pursuit to an end.
Inevitably being the escapist I am, I have also found myself indulging in more reading and escapism than I have permited myself to in years. I couldn't come up with a more suitable term to describe this repetitive tendency. All this, for the sole purpose of seeking solace and that familiarity I associate with my distant childhood; escaping from the cold iron wrought grasps of reality.
I suppose I should be satisfied or even delightful and proud of myself and my medieval methods of coping with my own cowardice.