fabulous roman candles exploding

extracts from the night before:
last time I walked those freezing paved streets in those shoes...
It was killing me inside, I had to go home, I was feeling the effects of acute social exhaustion, coupled with the damning, soul-destroying puzzlement of loneliness in a crowd, tripled with the painful and ridiculous feeling of missing someone and wondering if I was indeed in love or just suffering from a mental illness. Social contact is detrimental to my mental health and physical well-being, clearly.



I'm feeling as though I should be perpetually terrified at this moment in time, and to some extent I am, I guess. The weekdays are just an amalgamation of sociable events, all stacked after each other, in college that is, but that's okay I suppose, I'm learning to deal with this as normal life. I hang around with my friends instead of going straight home on the train. Why do I do this? part of me asks. Because it is good, healthy and wholesome, perhaps. Because it is natural behaviour that does not harm me, or so I am told. At least, not physically. Maybe it's me who is doing the mental harming, I dunno. Sometimes I feel that it's all too much, I need a bed and my music, or a book and some silence, or my mother. All of these things I know I feel a strong psychological need for because they make me feel safe. Yesterday didn't make me feel safe at all, and to top things off I was sort of experiencing what I decided to call 'pseudo-love syndrome' a kind of combination of perplexing and tumultuous symptoms that can be likened to what I perceive the physical and mental effects of love to be upon a person. (This information I have gleaned over time, from watching strangers, a selection of movies and television shows, as well as reading an assortment of books, all concerning 'love')
I did not feel contented at all, despite being surrounded by a plethora of lovely girl-friends. The last time I was in that city, walking those streets, I was with him. It was just nine days ago. (Secretly, of course, the fact that I was not with him at that point in time was killing me inside, but of course I could not reveal this for fear of 'dampening the mood' of the outing, which was generally a happy one.) 'The lads' had gone off to smoke weed at someone's house in their hometown, and us 5 lassies decided to take a daytrip into the city together on the bus and later have a girly sleepover at our friend's house. I ended up not going to the sleepover in the end, I was just too exhausted with all the social events of the day, so I made an excuse and walked back to the station in the freezing cold, on my own. It was a refreshing, yet sobering experience for me. I walked where I remembered we last were, just the two of us in the biting cold and miserable rain with the wind being all blustery and determined to wreck my umbrella, which he held over the two of us. I kept thinking of some DeathNote fic I read once where Light mentioned to L that when a couple in Japan share an umbrella, it means they are dating, but had to tell myself to shut up because it made me too schoolgirlishly happy to function properly. Will possibly not happen now, if ever, anyway. If I think this way, I will not only partially avoid disappointment and rejection, but if things do indeed turn out the way I want them to I will be so ridiculously ecstatic that I may in fact be tempted to die, for the sole reason that I'd be so happy, things might not ever get any better, and I'd rather have died happy than insanely depressed and miserable.
I take life so bloody serious, like it's a tragedy or something, a trivial event occurs and everyone's all blasé and easygoing and then there's me in the corner, going all Othello on everyone's ass, going 'THE HANDKERCHIEF! THE HANDKERCHIEF!'
I have a feeling that I need to laugh more, but I really don't know how. I don't find anything anyone says funny in the slightest. I feel like a humour-retarded freak.