The Comedian died today.
Well maybe not today; he has died in the very beginning of Watchmen.
In that sense, he has died who-knows-how-many times, and will continue to do so whenever someone opens the first pages of the book, for who-knows-how-many times.
I've got a yellow smiling badge and put in onto the wall, hadn't put on the blood stain yet. Figured it would've probably ensure some positivity, or hope so, but in vain.
The thing is, or I should say, the thing that I'm trying to describe here, is the inevitability of Panic Attacks.
Panic does attack. I wish otherwise, but it does.
You search for good things to think about, to hinder the negative energy, to feel better about yourself, but at the end of the day, feeling good or bad is simply out of control. Sometimes the powerlessness weigh you down like sands dropping through fingers.
And I, am the YOUs in these texts, just a quick annotation.
You can feel like a 9 ft tall giant just because of a smile from a stranger; and you can feel crappy as hell, despite how much (or how little) that you've done.
Panic attacks, with annotations or not, whether you do good or not, for whatever reasons possible.
Sadly, I don't have the words for drawing a brighter conclusion.
There's only the one with grotesque depression.
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