/lit/ - Literature

>>12714374
a) go back in time and force your parents to make you study and do chores when you were a child

b) wake up at 5:45 AM, exercise for 15 minutes exactly, get a sunlamp and stand in front of it for 10 minutes, take a cold shower, work on your hobbies before going to work (reading, painting, whatever). Don't beat yourself up for missing a day. Don't force yourself to work in the afternoon. Don't force yourself to catch up on work in days you've intentionally set aside. You only have a limited number of productive hours in the day and don't let your employer have them.
The feeling of falling behind kills your discipline - every day is a unique and discrete event that must have a unique and discrete drive to accomplish that is unaffected by the previous day's failures or successes.
Open your curtains! Open your windows! Don't be afraid to let rain dampen your windowsill.

>>11941312
Do you remember how the two of us would sit up in my flat in Burlington Vermont, watching awful movies and laughing while the world around us froze? There was one night in February of 2015, a favorite of mine that reached 40 below zero. It didn't matter because my crappy rental was warm and you were there beside me. I think the cold only made me love you more.

I miss the rhythmic rise and fall of your lungs with mine; that slowly dancing push and pull of your breathing as we slept, moving me to peacefulness as it wailed and stormed outside. I miss focusing on the cracks in the plaster walls, concentrating to prevent myself from drifting off, in an effort to savor being intertwined with you for as for long as possible. I miss the weight of another person's life bearing down into my own, how with each subtle shift and stir you unconsciously told me that you were there to stay. I miss the honesty such closeness whispered, those small unspoken affirmations found in subtle motions.

Before I knew it, I had to leave; the softness, the realness, the sincerity of you, that lovely thing so anchoring my peace. It evaporated into shallow digital platitudes, fading into silence. It was not my fault that I got sick and had to go, that for twelve long years, some asshole Bostonian Ivy League Doctor had filled my body with poison. I had been used for medical research, as is permitted within the bounds of standard practice under Massachusetts common law for pediatric psychiatry. As a 19 year-old kid, what was I supposed to say to you? “Sorry, I love you, but now I need to quit my job and drop out of school, and move four hours south back home because I can’t stop shaking or feel my skin, and it’s really hard for me to walk now, and I’m getting ready to die.”
It was not my fault that I left you alone up in Vermont, out in the cold by yourself.

Now that I am somewhat healed, back from death, that like very few people who go through Benzo withdrawal I am somehow still alive from what that monster did to me, that I no longer allow myself to get close to anyone. I hate what they did, how through violations so fundamental, they made me ugly. How I hate that I hate to be touched, how it feels like it’s my fault that something so essential now causes me such pain. And while I hate them deeply for all that they’ve done to me, I hate them the most for taking me away from you.

For some reason, after everything that happened, it was always okay with you. If all that I had was that gentle caring thing by which to warm myself, I think I could be that person again. I think it would be okay if the rest of the world were as frigid as it was that night in Vermont, way back in my memories, up in my flat, when the two of us would laugh and watch movies. I think it would be okay if all the world were dead and cold, so long as you were there beside me.