I write something, but then I erase it because it makes no sense. My words use to flow like cheap table wine, but now it is more like molasses. At this moment, I am in such a state of mind that unleashing my pure darkness on you all doesn’t seem like a fucking nice thing to do.
I am amazed that I have so many comments (which are hard to answer) and people who take the few minutes to read what I can shit out here right now. Thank you for that, it means so much.
I am fighting the devil himself. I see a red door and I want to paint it black kinda shit.
I feel like I am having an ongoing panic attack that only subsides when I drug myself and go to bed at night. Upon waking up, I feel a sense of dread and my stomach goes all crazy with aches. I would give anything not to have to get up in the morning. It uses most of my strength inside to face the day. What will happen? Will I be able to handle it or end up back at the hospital that uses decaf coffee?
Interesting antidote* I smoked some weed and it seemed to give me the ability, albeit short, to actually let the words that were stuck inside of me to come out. Like lube. Duly noted.
What prompted me to write this post to begin with is due to a poem I saw written by my blog friend Owen.
When I don’t see you posting, then I fear…
(A message to a blogging friend I haven’t seen around much. – Owen)
When I don’t see you posting, then I fear
The voices that I know you sometimes hear
Are back again, to drive you to despair;
But I want you to know, that I am there
I’ve known the world’s fell ways, I’ve felt it’s weight,
And nothing, recently, is going great,
I don’t know who I am, or where I’m at –
But then, I’m sure, you can relate to that
I hope, my missing friend, that you’re okay.
I want to hear what you might have to say;
I need to see your handiwork displayed —
When I don’t see you posting, I’m afraid
I’ve wanted to give up over and over again (devil.)
I keep saying fuck you.
I hope I win.