"Every form of addiction is bad" - Carl Jung

I found a set of stories I had written a while ago which were all inspired by a quote from one of my favorite psychologists, Carl Jung. If anyone is actually reading this, I hope you enjoy these.

I don't like change.

If you want me to be completely honest with you, yeah. I come down here a lot. It's kind of like some fucked up ritual. You could call it an unhealthy obsession, but this is a part of me. I search my memory, as far back as it allows, and here I am again. The first, ragged breaths of air I can remember swallowing into my fragile lungs. Despite all, I can't help but to acknowledge how commiserable this scene would undoubtedly appear to somebody outside of myself; watching me, or reading me like some sort of tragic novel. My desperation could appear comical to most. I am not bold enough yet to deny that.

And 18 years later, has anything really changed? My breathing is still shallow. I'm laying on my bedroom floor, my back pressed flat against the carpet. I'm surrounded by people. You know, friends. Well, I don't know. Friends? I don't exactly know what to call them, but now that I come to think about it, to assert these people as "friends" would be a gross over-exaggeration. But they're here, aren't they? Yes, for a solitary reason that doesn't have anything to do with my "good company," but you can't say they aren't here. I can barely open my eyes. I manage to squint, and I look to my left. I see a dark figure above me, on the couch with their hands covering their face. An image of a marionette doll, hands dangling limply, supported by bits of thread flashes through my mind for some reason that remains unknown. They're hopelessly endeavoring to suppress their laughter. I'm laughing too. I don't know why, but I am. I think I am, at least. I don't think it really matters though. In this moment, everything I believe is happening is. Whatever I imagine can be real. It can even be tangible. That must be why I'm reaching out to the ceiling now, grasping onto the air for nothing. Nothing, until I can visualize what I want the most. And I'm there again, gazing into the glowing, yellow lights of the windows of that house. My house. My memories. The past. Currently, the present. I am omnipotent. In this moment, I am omnipotent. And I'm back again, to my first memories. Everything else is no longer a part of me. Those lights. My ceiling. They're swimming above me in a haze. Fuck. Am I already tripping off of this shit? Everything's just a big, shimmering blur. I sat up, and immediately felt hot, wet tears running down my face and in that moment I knew that all these people surrounding me were in their perfect moment of life. And I knew that in that moment, it was real to them. They could feel it. Touch it. And it clicked: The aim isn't to stop the laughter. It is to try and hold that moment in, forever. Or as long as they can, at least. It's impossible now to stop yourself from marveling at how intense laughter and uncontrollable sobbing sound uncannily alike. The first usually leads to the latter, doesn't it? In these situations, they often do. Only now do I realize that they do need my company. They need to know that they aren't alone. But an hour and a half goes by, and it's gone. And they're gone. "Good shit, man." They're gone. And I'm still alone. But, I don't give a fuck. I won't remember this shit tomorrow. Fuck it.

I don't like change.
I fucking hate change.