...seven year itch...
...but when i thought about it, the fact that it would never work has never been a viable reason not to do something...i guess then i really do see my life as some sort of drama, and my choices really are based on what would make a good story rather than what my conscience tells me is right...then again, perhaps it would be better not o listen to the voice in my head telling me what to do...my conscience seems to have an affinity for fire that most would find shocking, and i suspect may draw sexual arousal from causing general mayhem...
...oh yeah, i'm back, let's see if anyone has noticed...
...i've never cared for the term clinical depression...i guess its because so many people bandy the term about, instead of accepting the fact that their life just sucks...only my life doesn't suck, i am actually quite happy despite my meager means and murky future...and i don't really get depressed either, i just get bored...bored with everyone and everything...and each time seems like the first, and each time seems like some sort of turning point where my life really does begin to suck...
...our great detective turned to vice when his mind lacked stimulation, he kept his seven percent solution in a mahogany case...i myself settled for a tin with an amusing slogan i purchased from a novelty store, i'm not implying that i am as brilliant a mind as he...i'm flatly asserting it, and i am protagonist in a very different sort of fiction that has yet to be written...can anything so evil really come from a little pink bag?...expired credits cards and old gym memberships still have their uses, though one shudders to think how much is wasted in those embossed little letters...
...i can't see my reflection in that tiny hand mirror anymore, its smooth surface, scuffed and scratched shows only faintest of images...but i don't mind, i never cared much for the face starring up at me when the mirror still had some semblance of its intended purpose...i've trained my eyes, as if to stare straight into the souls of those i choose to make contact with...but i find it distressing to see my own keen eyes starring back at me, searching for a soul and finding nothing...and i am forced to accept that i don't really exist, i'm just a fictional character, a secondary one at best, added either for comical relief, or to challenge some protagonist at a critical juncture in some far more interesting tale...
...and so i drop out of frame, take up my trusty pen cap and do that which makes me feel interesting, well into the wee hours...and when the contents of that little pink bag are spent, slip into something somewhat similar to sleep...then one wakes to a dreary sense of melancholy, and there lies the trial by fire...for this depression is as false as the euphoria it follows, and it is always tempting to dash such feelings away with another draw from the bag...or you can accept them both as falsehoods, that it was just to relieve the bordom, then you remeber that you are more interesting without them, and banish them to their tin until the next time you forget...
but there will always be a next time...
...oh yeah, i'm back, let's see if anyone has noticed...
...i've never cared for the term clinical depression...i guess its because so many people bandy the term about, instead of accepting the fact that their life just sucks...only my life doesn't suck, i am actually quite happy despite my meager means and murky future...and i don't really get depressed either, i just get bored...bored with everyone and everything...and each time seems like the first, and each time seems like some sort of turning point where my life really does begin to suck...
...our great detective turned to vice when his mind lacked stimulation, he kept his seven percent solution in a mahogany case...i myself settled for a tin with an amusing slogan i purchased from a novelty store, i'm not implying that i am as brilliant a mind as he...i'm flatly asserting it, and i am protagonist in a very different sort of fiction that has yet to be written...can anything so evil really come from a little pink bag?...expired credits cards and old gym memberships still have their uses, though one shudders to think how much is wasted in those embossed little letters...
...i can't see my reflection in that tiny hand mirror anymore, its smooth surface, scuffed and scratched shows only faintest of images...but i don't mind, i never cared much for the face starring up at me when the mirror still had some semblance of its intended purpose...i've trained my eyes, as if to stare straight into the souls of those i choose to make contact with...but i find it distressing to see my own keen eyes starring back at me, searching for a soul and finding nothing...and i am forced to accept that i don't really exist, i'm just a fictional character, a secondary one at best, added either for comical relief, or to challenge some protagonist at a critical juncture in some far more interesting tale...
...and so i drop out of frame, take up my trusty pen cap and do that which makes me feel interesting, well into the wee hours...and when the contents of that little pink bag are spent, slip into something somewhat similar to sleep...then one wakes to a dreary sense of melancholy, and there lies the trial by fire...for this depression is as false as the euphoria it follows, and it is always tempting to dash such feelings away with another draw from the bag...or you can accept them both as falsehoods, that it was just to relieve the bordom, then you remeber that you are more interesting without them, and banish them to their tin until the next time you forget...
but there will always be a next time...