It's 4:46am and I decided to stay up all night. There's no point in fighting this urge to be awake. Sometimes I never want to sleep. Getting myself to fall asleep is such an effort I can barely commit to. But once I slip into sleep, it stays with me. And I lie there somewhere, anywhere, or here on my bed, dead as a rock. I really do hate it. The awful request to be a vampire is creeping it's way to me now. If I never sleep... I could only imagine how I would be an entirely different person. If I was given half of my life back, the other half that was asleep during the nights, I would be unrecognizable to myself now. But this is just my imagination.
My constant desire to write is futile to any success or even to a single execution at all. I sit here, then flop onto my belly, then tap my fingers here, browse there, and finally criticize myself for being so idle and driven only transiently. Then I give up as I always do and consider the fact that as long as I can't grasp how to put the truth together, then I can't write. I cannot fucking write. Like this here, for example, is one pitiful attempt. It's cheap because I'm whining. I'm just good at whining.
At this moment, I can't even dare brood about 'my future'. Which really, is all I ever do about 'my future'. No one's ever really going to know their future until the future is the present.. but is it possible to know THIS little? Maybe it's not 'my future' I'm so concerned about. Maybe it's the fact that I seldom know myself. And why is that? Because I've spent years trying to cover up my little secrets and my little feelings and everyone else' stupid little affairs with me. But you know, what's comforting about this is that... I'm certainly not the only one so twisted up. I can't possibly be the only one who finds it hard to sleep at night because of ...aha, life's entanglements.
Everyone is everyone.
"And while you wait for you luck to change All you can think of is where you started."
My constant desire to write is futile to any success or even to a single execution at all. I sit here, then flop onto my belly, then tap my fingers here, browse there, and finally criticize myself for being so idle and driven only transiently. Then I give up as I always do and consider the fact that as long as I can't grasp how to put the truth together, then I can't write. I cannot fucking write. Like this here, for example, is one pitiful attempt. It's cheap because I'm whining. I'm just good at whining.
At this moment, I can't even dare brood about 'my future'. Which really, is all I ever do about 'my future'. No one's ever really going to know their future until the future is the present.. but is it possible to know THIS little? Maybe it's not 'my future' I'm so concerned about. Maybe it's the fact that I seldom know myself. And why is that? Because I've spent years trying to cover up my little secrets and my little feelings and everyone else' stupid little affairs with me. But you know, what's comforting about this is that... I'm certainly not the only one so twisted up. I can't possibly be the only one who finds it hard to sleep at night because of ...aha, life's entanglements.
Everyone is everyone.
"And while you wait for you luck to change All you can think of is where you started."
