This pen and paper is my only saviour now from everything weighing me down

Five hours of condensed tension; it is an understatement to proclaim that I am emotionally encumbered by unforeseen circumstances that seem all too familiar. I could stretch it thin and stretch my mind thinner, but overall there really is no point to persist. Must retort the cacophony with my silence. That is the only protest I know of that best defines who I am as a person. The alternative is... more than undesirable. Five hours with words released not amounting to more than five minutes. Even less so at a time. Is the problem then because of who I am or is it this dramatis persona I appear to be simulating in front of others? I oftentimes do wonder what it would be like, from the outside perspective, to meet me as I am in my current form. Do I truly divaricate this formless and intangible and sinister vibe? I speak solely out of sincerest curiosity, not as a form of self-criticism, but a mere observational point that perhaps must needs be determined. One by one, in very predictable terms, this sense of isolation will continue to pervade my human interactions and relationships until such a time when I get a better grasp of what I need to do to avoid such confrontations. There is actually only one denominator that makes me stop and worry, if -- and this if is but a big fat if -- the more I think of it, the more I will be become entrapped into this emotional tug. She is probably right. Of course, she is right; here I am being morose and stubborn again. I would not be me if I could, and the more I think about it, the less it stays unperturbed. This issue takes a life of its own now, ready and willing to converse with any soul that ignores the picket signs around me. 

What happened last night could not have happened any worse, but it was a risk worth taking. Suppose it is too early to assume the worst of things, but I always have these deadly premonitions hollering at my peripheries nonstop whenever such an event demands it. Tomorrow cannot come soon enough. And obviously that comment is figurative. I do not mean tomorrow exactly, per se. By tomorrow I mean the days to come still, something to look forward to perhaps? Highly dubious, that. If anything, her interactions with me from here on out will be quite telling. Reading her words is like reading binaries, and I do not speak code. What good is there to be had if I expect something so fragile to fail at every single turn? This negativity is why I can no longer have nice things. My heart stays, my mind wanders. My dreams, whatever they may be, linger, and my actions miserably underperform. Tomorrow (this time literally) will hopefully bring forth new hope.

Bullshit. Even if the morrow is barren of promises, nothing shall forestall my return.