Bilbao

Today was supposed to be a cheat day, a moment to recuperate and recharge, after a long week of underreliance.  I had allowed myself a moment's notice to be free, and in turn, the wheels of reality reimbursed me thoughts of annihilation once again.

It was difficult to engage myself with innocent fun. Thoughts of the days I spent in Las Palmas reverberate in my head allowing me no refuge from undesired thrusts from assertive ideals. It was as if the pain and suffering of six days worth of walk was the only thing keeping me from falling apart. I still have yet to scratch the surface, but I fear that the adverse effect of this is that I become attuned to the physical toll, and that once all is said and done, I then will become overly reliant on it.

I do miss Ainhoa a lot, and it is indeed a struggle to pretend not to be so, but she is not the sole reason why I feel the way I do now. Yes, she permeates my senses daily, a voice whispering inside my head, but she is a great force of positivity most of the time. Although, whenever I blast some tunes to play while on a hike and a song that we used to share to one another comes up, it is just too much of a distraction not to skip it. I wish we are on better terms than we are now. I am uncertain if it ever will be again. I want to punch a big hole on my face just thinking about how we ended up where we are now. 

Trying to keep myself afloat and positive is therefore a losing battle. The reason why I did this in the first place is the submission of the failure on my part to fight back against it. This physical punishment I endured upon myself is self-inflicted, it is inevitable. I have no other recourse than to deconstruct myself further down to the least amount of elements. It saddens me to imagine that I used to take pride with the fact that I have never been ailed by the depression anomaly, that I have remained atop of my emotional equilibrium. The smallest joys I get now are basically short-term highs for what is about to transpire when I eventually return to my reality in London. I do not want that at all.

My view of the city soured with the sudden influx of negative spirits swirling around me. My time at the Guggenheim museum was swift and unmemorable, if only I have very little patience or interests in the topic of automobiles, which is basically thirty percent of its content. The city itself is admirable, rustic, vibrant... I just...

The lights from my accommodation is whispering sweet lullaby to me tonight. I feel like I have wasted a wonderful opportunity to engage anew and rekindle the same passion I so did when I had spent time with other people in a monastery somewhere up the mountains a few nights ago. I need to smash my way out of this jaula and rejuvenate, learn to live with happiness again, from a small piece by piece.