Is it too late to ask for some clarity of mind and thought, so I might read with understanding?

Inky pools of despair seem to collect whenever I happen to stop and think. As much as I would enjoy being able to rest here, I cannot. It behooves me to move forward and not remain...yet still, fear seeks to chain me here. So I cannot move.

I dearly wish I could afford the price of peace and love but such things require dramatic stacks of money and time and most importantly honesty. Luxuries I used to carelessly throw away but not I clutch to quite desperately.

Not everything is lost but little is found on this excruciating jaunt across metaphysical realms of loathing and doubt. Whatever it means to be me is something beyond what I know and understand.

Which is good and bad, all together and wrapped up.

I sometimes get the feeling that if my sixteen and thirty-two year olds selves met my current twenty-two year old self that they would double team attack me with baseball bats.