The insecurities wrap themselves around me in the pseudo winters. It makes me feel colder and full of guilt for feeling bad. It’s strange, yes.

More often than not, the insides of my head are writhing in anxiety over situations that I both create and build up in detail, thanks to an over-active imagination. My plots involve grief and deceit and all kinds of drama. It would be amusing if I didn’t end up worrying about them translating into reality.

Insecurities are like the friends you have because you can’t really get rid of them. You’d rather they didn’t hang out with you, but they do. You don’t have the strength to cut them out of your lives and they know that and fester and grow, feeding off your weakness.