Why do I sometimes feel that living in New York City in a frigid rat-infested warehouse of an apartment with no food would be more real than what I'm experiencing now?
Anything would be more real than what I'm living now.
How can doing something you love bring so much dissatisfaction and restlessness?
1 comment:
Oh, friend-- I completely understand. I *completely* understand. That is *exactly* how my scholastics are making me feel right now, too. To a tee. I am sorry you are suffering. I know you know it is for the "greater good", "delayed gratification", etc., but-- honestly-- it is miserable and I appreciate that. And you should be allowed to feel miserable and unsatisfied with it. I am sorry.
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