and then i was dead
i'm dead. there's just this shitty sac of skin left and i feel like i'm rotting inside of it. i've been kicked in the teeth and i'm bleeding everywhere and nobody's here to save me. i fall to the pavement and my skull cracks on the sidewalk and i roll my eyes up to the sky and through the red filter i notice that nobody cares. and it's sad. and i pity myself and the place i've put myself in.
i've dug my own grave and after all my careful planning and all my socialization there's nobody waiting to pull me out of it, and it's starting to feel safer down here anyway. i think i just might let them bury me and shed my skin and live a skeleton loose of the chains of feelings, emotions, and cares. I'll watch the people live and die and the flames of passion flicker and fail, and i'll keep my icy face towards the floor and i'll remember that these things that we chase, our hopes and dreams, are only destined to destroy us as we set them at impossible levels of performance.
and this is my elaborate rant, my exercise in forgetting and making metaphors of feelings that i can't explain as my body filled with cafeine and yearning for sleep, a paradox in and of it's physical self clatters here nervously doubting everything it knows to be true.
and i'm saddened. and i cannot find my way out of this place. and the more i try, the more i find myself here again. i'm thinking i need a new hobbie. or maybe more alchohol.
right now the life of an alchoholic doesn't really seem so bad. since you can never have the perfect life, the one you want, at least you can look folward to forgetting your life isnt perfect every night in a drunken stupor. yes, that seems like quite the plan.
i've dug my own grave and after all my careful planning and all my socialization there's nobody waiting to pull me out of it, and it's starting to feel safer down here anyway. i think i just might let them bury me and shed my skin and live a skeleton loose of the chains of feelings, emotions, and cares. I'll watch the people live and die and the flames of passion flicker and fail, and i'll keep my icy face towards the floor and i'll remember that these things that we chase, our hopes and dreams, are only destined to destroy us as we set them at impossible levels of performance.
and this is my elaborate rant, my exercise in forgetting and making metaphors of feelings that i can't explain as my body filled with cafeine and yearning for sleep, a paradox in and of it's physical self clatters here nervously doubting everything it knows to be true.
and i'm saddened. and i cannot find my way out of this place. and the more i try, the more i find myself here again. i'm thinking i need a new hobbie. or maybe more alchohol.
right now the life of an alchoholic doesn't really seem so bad. since you can never have the perfect life, the one you want, at least you can look folward to forgetting your life isnt perfect every night in a drunken stupor. yes, that seems like quite the plan.