Life, or something like it.
I just put a Halls: Peach-Lyptus throat losenge in my mouth...
but it still had the paper on it. Thats the kicker.
So I'm sick. I've been sick for like a week or more. I had cold, then a sore throat, then the cold left, but I still had the sore throat, then that turned into a cough, so I couldnt sleep, now I have a fever. And a headache. Then probably I'll get AIDS, Parkinsons, Lou Gherig's Disease, then maybe a spat of Ebola. I fucking hate this. I feel like the world around me is trying to pull me down, I feel empty, I feel full of heavy air. This is me sick, but it's odd that the sickness manifests itself like some twisted mockery of my life.
Lately I feel empty, like I'm drifting. I don't know if my life up till now has been worth anything. I think that I could have done it any other way and I would still arrive right here. I could have done nothing and I would have arrived right here.
I hate the weather now in Rio. In these my last days, it's as if the land around me wants to expell me. To taunt me off. Make me sick, make me cold. Get me out. 10 more days? Something like that.
Honestly, I don't know what to do anymore. I'll just sit here and let the waves carry me away. Let the stinging green waves of apathy crash into my spine and chill me. Let them wipe away any rotten piece of myself I've left in this town. Let the sea foam polish away my memories. I wish I were a kid, coloring a picture and forgetting the world around. Sea foam green. Kids forget so easily, how I envy them.
My eyes hurt now.
I have a headache now.
Advil time.
Water time.
Eye drops time.
When I was laying on the bed just now... I had this idea for something to write about. It was something like: I hate how life just keeps ticking on, and on. It never stops. The minute you're born you begin dying. Life saps you, it drains you, and you fight to patch yourself together, you work to survive. It's so hard to have a sustained passion. Maybe its just me, but I can feel something for only so long. I can have passion only for so long, then the phial of whatever beautiful elixir, whatever crimson drug is dashed on the rocks of time, and it leaks away. I lose interest. I lose momentum. I'm empty again. I can't sustain it. Maybe it's just me. Maybe not.
Around and around we go...
but it still had the paper on it. Thats the kicker.
So I'm sick. I've been sick for like a week or more. I had cold, then a sore throat, then the cold left, but I still had the sore throat, then that turned into a cough, so I couldnt sleep, now I have a fever. And a headache. Then probably I'll get AIDS, Parkinsons, Lou Gherig's Disease, then maybe a spat of Ebola. I fucking hate this. I feel like the world around me is trying to pull me down, I feel empty, I feel full of heavy air. This is me sick, but it's odd that the sickness manifests itself like some twisted mockery of my life.
Lately I feel empty, like I'm drifting. I don't know if my life up till now has been worth anything. I think that I could have done it any other way and I would still arrive right here. I could have done nothing and I would have arrived right here.
I hate the weather now in Rio. In these my last days, it's as if the land around me wants to expell me. To taunt me off. Make me sick, make me cold. Get me out. 10 more days? Something like that.
Honestly, I don't know what to do anymore. I'll just sit here and let the waves carry me away. Let the stinging green waves of apathy crash into my spine and chill me. Let them wipe away any rotten piece of myself I've left in this town. Let the sea foam polish away my memories. I wish I were a kid, coloring a picture and forgetting the world around. Sea foam green. Kids forget so easily, how I envy them.
My eyes hurt now.
I have a headache now.
Advil time.
Water time.
Eye drops time.
When I was laying on the bed just now... I had this idea for something to write about. It was something like: I hate how life just keeps ticking on, and on. It never stops. The minute you're born you begin dying. Life saps you, it drains you, and you fight to patch yourself together, you work to survive. It's so hard to have a sustained passion. Maybe its just me, but I can feel something for only so long. I can have passion only for so long, then the phial of whatever beautiful elixir, whatever crimson drug is dashed on the rocks of time, and it leaks away. I lose interest. I lose momentum. I'm empty again. I can't sustain it. Maybe it's just me. Maybe not.
Around and around we go...