Some nights I dream deeply of hanging myself from the shitty wooden balcony of my shitty second story apartment. Others, I dream of apocalyptic worlds devour the people I love. Sometimes, they are of just me, alone.
Some days I just want to write myself off. Then I think of all the pages already filled. How many more there are to fill. It stops me. That and the sad look in the eyes of people that matter. The fact that I am a staple in that sadness if I commit such treason. That killing myself, is just me being a bad friend.
It's bad enough I hardly call, let alone recall where my telephone is. I live in this false reality in my head. A faux complex of things going alright to cloud the indefinite tragedy that is my existence. Yeah, it's gotten pretty bleak. But for some reason I pursue my daily chores and eat at least one meal a day.
Existing. I guess that's all I'm doing, and perhaps that is all I am good at. Perhaps this whole writing thing was just another fun thing to add to my fun world filled with awesome things I do and for which I have talent. Or perhaps, this is all wrong and I'm just insane.
Maybe this is a journal entry. Maybe this is the start to an novel.
Who knows now?
