Mangled attention

I'm a masochist...a martyr. An attacker of the internal, a crowd of voices all my own. Am I important? Not in the slightest. Does anything I say have value? I don't know you tell me, and even then, who's to say it's not just a timely fascination? So what am I here for? I don't know. Am I the only person who sits and obsessively ponders if it would be to my benefit to leave the house and interact with friends like a normal human being? Am I the only one who fights with myself like I'm 5 different politicians hammering out needs vs. wants, personal gain, sacrifice and whatever else you can possibly add to the list? Am I the only one who deprives myself instant pleasures because of what I know will result in larger and more consequential ramifications to the denial of my true nature. I'm always split. There is no angel and devil...rather a spinning of trials, truths, and falsities all spitting epiphanies at an overwhelming rate. But who cares? Who cares if I want to disappear into nothingness because I'm so tired of being blown further and further out of formal existence? I crave it and yet it's characteristic of most, including myself, to want to be remembered, to be thought of, to exist outside of oneself. And maybe all of this back and forth doesn't really exist. Maybe it's all an ideal and not really challenging my nature at all. I love the denial of not allowing myself to have what I want. I get some sick satisfaction out of knowing that it makes me look beyond. I too, want to go out and experience love and physical passion with another person and yet, is that really what I want? Am I even going anywhere with this? Give and take, push and pull, we all love it and relish in the drama and the anxiety of creating life force; of playing out a fantasy so sick and twisted, so genius and intellectual we ourselves are sold to our own made up villain. Who will be the hero tonight?