My life has been one long intersection with sorrow. Sadly, this is not so much because sorrow has sought me out as that I have desperately clung to it. My journey with misery is mostly my own doing; my own foolish reliance on tearing apart my past. I do not understand my need for this, my need to jump into, to review and trash each choice. This need to review everything and "explore" how things would be "better" if I had chosen "better" really serves me poorly. This has no value, it adds nothing of quality to my life, yet I do this again and again. More amazing, I've done this for years. A function of my anxiety, of my propensity towards depression perhaps? I don't know. I do know that I don't like it. I don't like the way it raises my blood-pressure, the way that it tortures my mind, nor the way that it chokes the goodness from my life.