June 14th 2009

I miss the easy nights falling asleep. My bed was like a novel I had no trouble getting into. The best kind, without plots or "poetic device." Everything was simple and didn't make my head spin. Now my pillow is a mystery or at least some drawn out suspense plot. My eyes, well, my blood cells in my eyes pop at great intervals throughout the day, usually when I smoke cigarettes. This creates the illusion that I am suffocating. From my lack of sleep comes my lack of better judgement, and well erratic un-tranquil parts of my mind kick up symptoms like an under-toe. This convinces me I am suffocating, and this is when I start to panic. I calm myself by playing my guitar, but even that is just an instrument to bring me down. I dream about the end of my life atleast 18 of my waking hours, in full, no matter what I am doing. I am stuck at this dilema---- If I fake being happy, and die, then it becomes a tragedy, and drawn out and sickening. I never once loved life. If I'm a miserable prick like my usual self, then all of this is meaningless. I don't want to die, it's just the closest thing to a future I can see.