Exhausted, can’t sleep. No one to talk to… only the sound of the portable heater, running in the background. What the hell am I supposed to write anyway? Okay. Dear diary, whatever. I’m currently at a point in my life where nothing is going right anymore. All the foundations I’ve built throughout the years are finally crumbling. I suppose this demise of mine was, at best, inevitable, and the question being, do I still possess the capacity to continue the never-ending journey of endurance? I’m not the mischievous little boy that once invaded everyone else’s personal space. It makes me wonder, though, might I one day rise again from this state of suspended animation? I often imagine a special someone coming into my life to awaken this sleeping dragon; to rid the disgrace of living in a decrepit shell and reanimate this old man into a young body of my 33 year old self, cured. I’m tired of saving myself. Mom asked me earlier why I get these sudden panic attacks. I confessed that I still worried about dying without ever finding my first kiss. And they get to me, these silly romanticisms that linger inside my heart. I’m trapped between the confines of darkness and light. I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to live either, with all the unwanted mess. I’m not afraid. I don’t have the luxury of fear. I have so much hope for the medical advances nowadays and the future to come, but also must consider quality of life and whether or not waiting is actually worth the prolonged suffering. My mind is about to blow with all such thoughts, but all I ever wanted was to hold a girl’s hand. I want to lie next to her beneath the popcorn ceiling skies and breathe… just breathe. Um, I think I wrote this while high, bwahaha!
Posted on: Tue, 30 Dec 2014 12:25:10 +0000
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