Ross. 24. A voluntary solitary in this railroad town. Mired in memories, sick of being sick, and haunted by the absence of the being I hold most dear. I read a lot, write almost as much, and work at a stage theatre. Here, I've laid these out: take a look.
i think it broke. oops.
im struggling for reasons and all im coming up with is cat
this month is fucked
i cant do, i dont want to do
i want to lie down, i want to scream and set myself on fire
i want my last glimpse of existence to be a wood floor, or chipping paint
a cooking pot on its side
i dont want helen to see, but thats a very human thought
she wouldnt care
the more drug-fueled cathartic moments that i cram into my life
the more detached i become from the natural human need to be alive
it matters less and less
like dying would start off a vacation but once i start driving i realize im moving
and my reaction would be
and then im gone
the ultimate defiance in the face of the crushing void of existence is to remove yourself without its consent, to shout IM LEAVING NOW and just go
the insomnia express has just reached hallucination station
I’m going to a fucking rockabilly barbershop to get my Nathan Detroit on because my director and my boss are conspiring dicks. So get ready for smooth shaved and pompadour, pictures to follow for whoever cares.
I’m leaning pretty hard toward quitting my job and going to grad school. I’m not really cut out for this kind of work, and realizing how much I miss academia is pushing me more and more.
Just wanted to write it down somewhere.