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.