I forget how sick I really am. I have grown harrow and terse toward myself, exercising beyond my capacity and pushing myself toward critical blame. I found a photograph of myself from two years ago. I am smiling, despite the deep pain rendered in my irises. I hold it as a memento now, not willing to forget where I have come.
I shall update: still on antibiotics, riddled with a chemical anxiety (directed toward all), and demented in many aspects of the word. It is the single most frustration. During the soul-searching periods of the breakdown, I harkened upon the most creative period of my life. It was because I went, in brief, clinically insane and did not catch it until a thrall of a while longer. This surge of creativity defined my existence. I crave it now, as it is hampered in part by my brain-lack-function.