I prefer to think of it as living to a wandering metronome with a swung beat.

Existence is painful, leading one to obsessively contemplate whether the opposite - non-existence - would provide peace.

What can change the nature of a man?

Time. For with time grows regret and a desire for active atonement.

Who forgives self-betrayal?

His wounds healed quickly but the scars, all those countless internal and external scars, remained as ugly reminders of a pained existence that never got easier.

The most lonesome of all are those who refute their loneliness.

"You have something, I'm not sure what it is, but you definitely have something."
"Madness?"
"Yeah, that could be it."

"I really don't like you."
"Good."
"What?"
"Your contempt validates and reinforces my intrinsic self-loathing."
"Oh man, now my hatred is joined by pity."
"My inner masochist sincerely appreciates your condemnation."

The detachment from reality was nigh-complete. A parade of alien shapes and meaningless symbols flowed into his perception but there was never any connection, nothing relatable to the dysfunctional nightmare of his internal existence.

Passion, joy, motivation, confidence, energy; all retreated from the overwhelming forces of fear, doubt and pointlessness.

"From what I've heard, reality must be one hell of a horrific place to inhabit."

A real human, given the experiences that had occurred, would have been able to cry.

But the tears would not come.

"I'm sorry, we don't serve androids."
"But I'm not an android. I'm a robot."
"What's the difference?"
"Androids can be mistaken for human."

The tendency for self-imposed isolation became stronger as time passed, reinforcing the need to hide away from situations where an explanation for the total social retreat would be required.

It was not a sustainable solution but survival in the short term was easier and the path of least resistance had always been chosen under times of stress.

It was as if the writer's block had contaminated his brain's emotional centres. He knew he was experiencing feelings - oh, how he knew - but there was no understanding of what they meant or where they came from.

Sit. Look up. Breathe.

Ignore the chaotic turmoil tearing against the mental bonds needed to maintain up the mask of calmness. Avoid all introspective contemplation. Do not think.

Sit, look up, and breathe.

Just sit. Just breathe. It'll all be okay someday.

He cut himself off from as much contact with life as possible, like a cancer mortally ashamed of it's own malignancy.

Emotions were rampant but the words to convey them would not come. It was simpler to keep quiet.

Self-expression was seen as dangerous, a risky broadcast of internal vulnerabilities to an untrusted audience.

He prayed that the sun would symbolically burn away the darkness in his head.