Hello There, How Are We Today?

    Not entirely well I am afraid to say. My inspiration, which was one fledgling, hit a hill and went rolling. I wrote and wrote for days on end. Here I am now, stuck without any ideas what so ever.
    I smoke, drink, and kill myself gradually in an attempt to bring my muse back to me. She wants nothing but blood these days, and I am not willing to slit my wrist to feed her. The alcohol with which I once fed my soul now only burns it.


The days when suffering was easy are gone.
The days when I did excessive amounts of drugs are gone.
The days I enjoyed are gone.

    Funny how that works, no? I become comfortable somewhere, and I only find myself suffering more so than I did in the previous place. What is life but, and I quote Octave Mirbeau, "an immense, inexorable torture-garden"? Perhaps I take that out of context? Most likely I do. Those things that make us great only destroy our humanity in the long run. Is it so much to ask to suffer as I once did?
    I know what you are thinking to yourselves. "Why does this kid whine so much?" And I retort with how my suffering brought a sense of gladness to my life. When in a depression my mind was more clear than if I were completely sane. I rationalized perfectly. I thought purely. Most of all, my writing was perfection as far as I am concerned.


Perhaps I am not meant to be a writer?
Then why is it the only thing I long for?


I miss the drugs.
I miss the alcohol.
I miss the people.
I miss the sense of mortality.

And so I leave you, after reading this choppy post, with a simple statement.
Who the hell cares about us but ourselves?


    Go forth and listen to The Octopus Project.

What They Found
The Way Things Go