State.

Something I found to listen to is launching me back into the circular conversations, the old human ones where I scare myself by asking if I'm crazy and if I'm conscious and if I'm making irrational decisions without knowing I'm impaired and if so how would I know and if I were would it even matter because what I do and think and feel is how it is and how I am.

My name is Jessica and I form damaging emotional attachments to states of being and to people.
I carefully plant such attachments way down deep inside and nurture them in dark soul soil visible to no one else but me. In time, my rational side comes to hate her emotional twin's secret flowers; passive-aggressively, she doesn't uproot them, but tears their leaves into smaller and smaller pieces until her fingers can't rip them anymore. In rare circumstances she might even nourish the mutilated stems back to health, watching their leaves regain the bloom of life before repeating the entire process--torture in the first degree. But I always come to find that my dysfunction stems less from what become my vices than it does from the notion of attachment--the necessarily-being-attached, the idea that I am one puzzle piece of many that will make me me. I don't know if I truly trust the concept of becoming one, of merging myself with other things, and this is why I consistently create obsessions with the inanimate and the impossible. Such projections constitute a virtual reality which satisfies my insatiable human need for attachment without offending the laws by which I function, which are founded in the first degree on singularity.