Shortly after, I realize that I still have a lot to say.

I feel incomplete without other people's affection and attention. I long for others' appreciation, because I'm hollow. I don't have anything to measure myself with, nor do I care to. Lying on my bed a minute ago, contemplating the thoughts that came into my head during the previous post, I was wondering whether somebody have already read it and replied with words of kindness, support, care. Without it, my effort seems fruitless, even as I understand it to be otherwise.

I'm an introvert who requires others' attention. How weird, and how peculiar.

I can't see myself doing something that doesn't permit outside praise. I only went through with #tfgsworkout because I knew people would be watching, and people would be supporting, and people would be caring. As I finished my Week 1 post, I stopped caring about the rest; I went for a bicycle ride today, and the halfway-and-back across the city left me tired and without any wish for further physical activity. I declared today "REST" in the workout table, even though it's far more appropriate to call it "SKIP". I wasn't tired before I went for the ride; I wasn't feeling it even before.

I keep hearing about doing things for one's own, but it doesn't make sense to me - to the me that sits in the background and actually rules the scene. I realize the reward for such a noble activity as helping oneself, but it doesn't settle well with me, given how almost every time I bailed instead of staying and actually doing something. It feels pathetic, even though it isn't.

When I think of great things, I think of the family that I would have and the loving wife I could come to when I feel weak and incapable - which won't happen because I ought to be always strong, always capable, always ready for anything. I have standards most people will rightly find ludicrous, and it is by them I attempt to live without any success. I imagine myself in a big house without having to worry about money because I've - we've - got enough to spend and plenty to come. I imagine myself finishing the great stories I've planned for when I become more capable in finishing them, which is the day that never comes closer. I imagine myself in plenty of other ways which don't seem to correlate well with reality, and this lack of correlation puts me into deeper depression; I care less because I can't care more.

I tried to persuade myself into the lesson #tfgsworkout brought me so far: that only through work can I achieve those grand things as I've already achieved small. Yet, my mind won't see any of it: the deeper me wants the house, now, and the family, now, and the wife, the money, the stories, now, now, now. No matter how many times I tell myself that I'd do this and achieve that, I reach the only thing that holds true among the hubris: I don't care about it. I don't care about myself.

I enjoy pain. I like beating myself easily with a stick or a handle or a hanger that I like playing with with my hands. I like patting my legs a bit too much from time to time. I like the pain that comes from BDSM. Maybe I don't feel whole without pain. Maybe I crave it, despite how morbid it might seem to me. Enduring pain by choice lets me delude myself into feeling in control of my life, of myself. It has no other purpose than to regain control of myself; after all, control is always there - it's the feeling of it that vanishes with the pain undesired. The choice is there, but I choose to let things happen to me and, instead, feed the illusion of control - what does it say about me?

Maybe I've lied again. Maybe I don't see myself without pain, as much as one doesn't see basketball without the ball. Maybe I don't make sense to myself when I'm not under stress, or pressure, or pain, or any other kind of suffering. Though speculations, they start to make sense.

I've always done that. Discern life into little manageable pieces to have the feeling of control over it. Learn everything about everything in order to understand it: there's no fear where you understand. It's what the younger Sherlock does: he's terrified of life and does everything his powerful brain is capable of to make sense of it. Maybe there's no sense to make. Our lives are one big mess where nobody can see beyond the length of their hand, trying desperately not to clutter it even further - how much sense does it make?

I've always seen myself incomplete without a person by my side that I could trust and love, and who'd trust and love me just because she cares about me. Not because I can serve as the sponge for her emotions when she feels like those are undesirable, foreign, alien; not because I can help her with whatever she needs because I'm a nice guy and enjoy doing things for praise; not because of any other stupid reason people come up in order to justify themselves being more of a mess than they wish to be - but because she cares about me and will allow me to care about her, without any conditions. I long for such a person, even if it might be another ideal I will never reach.

I often fantasize about a life I would have. There, in my fantasies, I'm not prone to emotions, I always have the right attitude - mature, confident, rational, soft-spoken yet undaring, unassuming, small-minded even for such a big mind (because the latters are what I always was; I can't imagine anything else); I always have the girl, even through conflict, and often I save her in one way or another to win her heart, because that's the kind of thing that would make sense to the me in the background; and even if problems come (boy, do they always come), I will overcome them, despite feeling powerless and outmatched (because I don't know how else can I feel in those situations).

In my fantasies, she's always there: imperfect just in the right ways, capable of caring more than I ever will, sensible but reasonable... and so on; I feel like listing those qualities are just another jerk-me-off. She's always by my side, and I can come to her when I feel weak and incapable - even though I never would, because I ought to always be strong, always capable, always ready... The truth is, I'm terrified to meet a girl, because she might be not perfect, and I would mindlessly act on those imperfections as if they're the important thing, completely forgetting my bigger goal of trust and acceptance that I myself yearn. Still, I wish for her, even if it doesn't make sense: when it comes to me, things ought to go differently, for some reason. I don't have to be reasonable about myself, but others are always a fair game, especially if criticizing them will bring me the so-desired ego boost that I can't get in any other way.

I'm broken, and I don't know a way to fix myself. Then again, maybe it's not me who's broken: the world around us is full of subtle shaming, telling us that it's all our fault that our lives suck, even though we can't realistically make it any better. Personal responsibility is always on, but what else do you call it when excessively-sweet drinks producers promote exercise while leaving no attention to diet? Maybe I'm under the influence of things we don't notice; maybe I do, in fact, suck as a healthy person. I feel the need to ask someone else, someone no doubt more experienced and capable...

...even though we're just garbaging through the mess left behind by others, not being able to see beyond a reach of our arms, trying desperately not to suffocate and, meanwhile, to leave some legacy for which we are to be remembered.