Zone

I'm in a zone. I've been there for god knows how long. Hours, days, weeks, months, who the fuck knows. It's not like I know what I'm doing. Sometimes I feel a full blown rant would help things, but I just cant. My subconscious is probably tired of me whining about how fucked things are on a day to day basis. So it came up with the brilliant idea of stemming the flow of words not from my mouth but from my fingers.

Image currently in head : Brain stem trying to choke me and tying up my fingers with nerve fibres.

Sometimes I wish I was better at sketching, so I could put down what I was thinking with a little more clarity.

I'm quite tired of thinking. Seriously. Its a strain, drain and other things ending with -ain, or even rhyming with it.
I dont see the point of constantly battling your desires so as to fulfil long term goals. If you cant be happy now, whats the point of being happy 20 years later. There is the whole work hard ethic thing, but seriously, how can you guarantee your happiness after youve achieved whatever goal you have.
If I end up penniless a couple of years later, I'll say " At least I enjoyed my time!"

I hate the way I write now. I cant articulate the thoughts in my head. Everything is gone. Lost. Probably even put up for adoption.

This might seem like a rant, but is far from one. Venting out feelings is hardly enough anymore.

It's a drug. You use, abuse and then your tolerance increases, you hit it harder and harder, looking for that release. Chasing the dragon as its called, in the more opiate controlled form.
Its what ive been looking for, a release.
Well, my arms are covered with needle marks, im out of veins to shoot into, regular junk doesnt do it for me anymore. Am I nearing saturation, or have I just become eternally thirsty.
Burroughs spoke of the wraith (ive probably got the name wrong, but who gives), a protoplasmic remnant of what was once a human and then a junkie. Thats all I am now. The wraith is transparent, so am I. So used to opening and venting out, I am just an open book, though who might be reading is another question altogether.

I remember a time, when there was an angst in what I wrote, some feeling, and a little accomplishment when I got done with it. Now, there is just the expectation, the anticipation, followed by an old friend, disappointment.

And what fun is there, what joy is left, in forcing myself to do something. It becomes pure mindless drudgery, something I loathe from the very depths of my being.
I never thought I would be one to bow to the machine, and here I am, contemplating to be one with it.

I might have had a spark once, I'm not quite sure. It might have been a fledgling spark, a sparklet. But whatever it was, if it was there, it is now gone, extinguished by time and tide.

I am still young, with years to go before the final release ( chance dictates how many) But I feel no joy in what I do. There is no zest. There is nothing.

This might be a phase, it might pass. But doesn't its occurrence signal something far worse to come.

I could go on typing. But what would be the point. As usual I have become butcher to myself, hung myself up by the meat hook for all to see.

I see no end in sight, all there is, is bleak. And it is I who is to blame. For no matter how much you debate it, a man is the master of his own destiny.

Maybe tomorrow I'll feel better.
Still, I will be the same.

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I should have written this in my journal, but spontaneity got the better of me.

Of Doors And Dreams

He had a key
The corridor
seemed endless
Doors, innumerable
All alike
Which one he looked for
he knew not himself

Its not like he could stop
Dream was all he did
Had the key not fit
It might have made sense
to stop
But each and every door?

He was probably born with it
Was he the key
or the key him
None could say
Least of all him

They had told him
of fortunes he was to have
For every door
was his to open

None of them did
Maybe the key
was made wrong
But each time
it seemed just right

Where the line was
between real and unreal
he knew not
Had he crossed it
Or was it where he stood
He had found a constant
a pillar, a companion
in a blur

He still tries every door
Out of hope, some despair
others with a will
easy to fade
There were always those
he walked into
blindly

None open
He can see through though
and wish
for that is all
that keeps him going
Wish

Caught up in
disappointment
he drowns silently
in a glass half full
Though he knows
in his heart of hearts
The key
He never turns it all the way
.


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Now Playing : Sigur Ros - Flugufrelsarinn
Now Reading : The works of Mr. Grewal, among other things
Now Feeling :

To Do List

Things to do this summer :

* Reach home (Done)
* Not get killed by parents
* Not kill parents
* Kill younger brother
* Quit smoking (Hah!)
* Study (Hah!)
* Watch Skins (Season 3)
* Actually finish the books i pick up from the library
* XBox 360 (I only have 2 games, still no Halo 2/ 3/ etc)
* Fix busted knee
* Buy new shoes
* Write something good in my journal (poor thing has been untouched for over a month!)

Who says I'm not organised?