I don't like this. Not at all.

This is a state of upheaval, of disorientation, of vertigo.

I don't know how it was triggered -- by some coded sequence of emotions initiated by their remarks and my replying thoughts -- and now I'm cast out, solitary and alone. Maybe it has to do with the behavioral coin-flips I go through when dealing with males and females. Or that the meeting's purpose dissolved in 5 minutes of its initiation. Or the promptless disparagement of who I think is fine professor. Or that I'm exhausted. My laughs were expected, and I met them. In some terrible way these things congealed, a build-up behind my eyes. I laughed to hide my panic, my stupefying anxiety -- of what specifically, I wasn't sure, or maybe didn't want to confront. These were not petty social insecurities. They far surpassed them. Later it swelled with something about my improper question, about he and she, and a joking remark on the departed's 'flirting'; walking the stairwell, these thoughts offended me when I knew that I was entirely wrong for being so.

It's uncomfortable, when a sense develops of the tense incongruity of my personality. It isn't self-effacement -- no, it lacks any of its pathetic drive; this sense feels of the truest perspective, faithfully objective, outside my normal foggy state of perception. I see myself, misshapen, a splintered cuboid, a display of impossible physics. How can it stand as one, with its very real conflictions: narcissism and self-repulsion, whim and severity, singularity and rivalry, libido and love? How does it feign its unity? It turns and reveals itself in facets. I urgently want to deny its multiplicity, attack it. Is everyone like this, or is this uniquely mine? My early disbelief of religion, along with the hostility of schoolyard, and a fall into seclusion: out of these conditions it was formed. I'm reminded of its frailty every time these dense kernels of emotion strike its precarious construction, yet I can do nothing to destroy, or even alter it.

I don't know how, or where I was going with all this, but my feelings have resolved. In writing of it, I dissolved it.

And by the way, I would like your frank thoughts on my writing. Writing is an expression of myself, and if it's banal, impenetrable, or plain-vanilla ineffective then I'd like to know. I'd like to improve.