Melancholic Realism

Sometimes I sit and contemplate all my insecurities, my fears, my illusory expectations, my copious desires, my far fetched goals and my unattainable happiness. I then gather them as if they were leaves in the gutter and flush them in the disposal of my subconscious, only to be fetched the next time I feel like sulking in solitude and wallowing in the negativity so frequently desired by my destructive character.