>>33610331
I spend my days in solitude, living in my small enclosed world. Coffee, cooking some good food. Organizing stuff. Consuming interesting enriching media. This is really all I concern myself with. Schizoid? Whatever actually matter in life I do the bare minimum to uphold.

Other people are a pain. No I won't elaborate. It's as if this fact forces me to abstain from everything and everyone. My time has become precious. My time is literal gold. Even though I spend it doing nothing lucrative this state is preferable to dealing with the world.

I don't relate to anyone. The only interaction outside of transactional with people is either when some auntie in heat starts touching me, or I casually chat up complete strangers in the street.

No, I don't have "anxiety". I am completely unbothered by any delusions or neuroticism. I am aware of mortality and insignificance all the time. That, life is too common a thing to be precious. I live easy and unrestrained. Nothing bothers or concerns me anymore.

But all the while the years go by. I am already old. My life is over. My fantasies become dreams forever. Life imposes itself onto me. I see chains, a cage. An ever faster transing experience of life as monotony. I might as well die now. I am already condemned.

Nothing's interesting or enticing. Not the enterntainments of the commoners. Not the young sluts or the ripe aunties. Not whatever substance, no place in the world. I am just tortured by the silence and blandness of inaction. But nothing's worth the action.

I become evermore unrestrained, unconcerned. Uncaring about myself. A refined but wild animal living only to feel scorching heat, rain, cold. To smell the deep-seated filth in the streets. Breathe. See. Experience.

Everything that doesn't register as fight or flight like is underwhelming.