<center>https://moonstruckmicrocosm.files.wordpress.com/2013/08/thoughts.jpg
<a href = "https://moonstruckmicrocosm.files.wordpress.com/2013/08/thoughts.jpg">Source</a>
</center>

"I ultimately want to stop being a loser."

It was the one thing that I managed to write in this space almost two months ago - and as I open a new post thinking very similar thoughts - and seeing that exact statement waiting for me - it strikes me that things haven't really changed at all.

It is increasingly apparent that I shall eventually pass from this World with a mile-long list of regrets. It often enough feels like that there is nothing that I can, or will, do to alleviate this fate. Thus-far I haven't even had the "spine" to become the bastard that I recognize that I'd need to be to make any leeway in getting ahead in this dystopian jungle.

The aura of failure that surrounds me has made me a bitter individual. A part of me truly wishes to lash out and cause harm, but I have no target that I wish to lash out at. This is probably for the best and yet it adds to the sense of frustration.

I have mentioned that I am succumbing to video game addiction. I play games to feel better about myself. To feel any sense of validation upon this lower level plane of existence, virtual or otherwise. For this reason every little victory feels a little like hunting the meal of the day - and every loss feels like an underlining of my identity as a failure.

A lot of my energy goes into attempted self-validation in this way, every day. Every little misfortune that comes my way, in life or in game, feels amplified like my senses are rubbed raw and tender. A part of me wants to scream but it often simply forms a knot in my throat as I die very slightly inside instead.

And as with any addiction I often feel empty afterwards. My only solace being that the next day is an opportunity for better... but better it never truly is. Its just another day of being a loser wasting his energy on a game, nursing wounds that never heal.

Cursed with a perpetual tiredness of the soul that manifests every time he lays fingers to keys to write, so much so that most of this has been re-written following 'dozing off' on the 'backspace' button and wiping out the entire article that took upward of a month to begin... yet another reminder of how cursed I truly am.

And, lest the anger that fueled this rewrite should fade to permit another weariness-fueled micro-disaster amplified by my perspective, I shall stop here for today - trying not to think about how I've again failed to make a post about anything other than how far I've fallen.