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Sometimes I light so many candles in my house my roommates panic that the fire alarm will start ringing (that’s probably due to the fact that one time I lit so many candles I burned multiple household items). Sometimes I drink bottles of cranberry grape juice in one sitting, pretending it’s wine, quenching some alcoholic thirst. Sometimes I eat so many Milano milk chocolate cookies that I have to tell myself the bag came with less than it should have. And sometimes I casually stock my ex’s on social media, as if I’m continuing a conversation we never even started to have.

All things that I think will somehow end up making me feel good, when shocking to no one, they end up making me feel worse.

I’m not sure where the fascination lies in masochism, but as I cram one more cookie in my mouth, I am assured that it exists somewhere.

We pay our bills 4 minutes before their deadlines when we knew about them for weeks.
We pick at bumps and cuts, opening nearly healed wounds just to watch them bleed.
And when our insides aren’t exposed enough, we peel open old relationship wounds refusing to let them scar.
It’s as if we find ways to break our own hearts, from small ways like not wearing the proper coat for the weather, or in big ways, like not allowing ourselves to let go.

There’s something to say about that delicious way we curse our own behavior, yet delight in the ability to do so.

But I’m not sure if it’s because we find pleasure in the hurting, or if it’s because we don’t know what to do with all of the empty space once the pain is gone. If there’s one thing I know about aching, it’s that it consumes mass quantities of time, acting as almost entertainment to an otherwise void.

So then, is it that we are addicted to the damage or are we just terrified of being freed?

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