tired.

[face_elliot]

I've been writing furiously but it isn't helping. No journal entry can aid my search for an explaination. I'm looking for an answer...to what?  To why I wrote down all these words? To why I'm consuming copious amounts of black coffee all day? To why I'm so distracted and unmotivated? Perhaps covertly embedded somewhere in this journal there is a spin on my unhappiness; beyond the words maybe there's an expression of its perpetuality and depth. Or its vanity and narcissism. Is it a satire? Am I writing a comedy of tragedies? All pertaining my woefulness and my sense of incompatibility with the universe. Why do things only seem to add up after I've forced them to in my mind?

I wish you wish you could take it back.
Other times I wish you'd just grow up and apologize.

Thanks. For the memories.