MA 45:6

Another restless night that bleeds from black into blue, into the crisp, cold morning. I cried once again at the thought of someone loving me.

Suddenly, I felt the need to leave my house. I got out of bed and decided on getting an iced chai, something nice and cold to ease the pain and swelling.

I departed into the darkness of 6 AM and drove to the coffee shop, shivering, cold hands gripping the steering wheel. I like the cold. The cold air makes me feel clean. It makes me feel more alive. Aware of my own mortality.

I acquired my iced beverage and drove my way back home. You see, I wanted to sit at a park somewhere to enjoy my drink, however, there are people getting ready for work and such. I'd hate to be spotted. And dogs bark way too loud.

I noticed that our roses were coming in very nicely as I exited the car. Nice, deep, blood red ones that curl at the ends pointing sharp. I'd like to have lipstick that color.

The iced chai was delicious. Way too much sugar, as I indulged in purchasing a large. But it's either a sugary drink to boost my serotonin levels or a more physical, painful release that would be the same color as those roses.

Sometimes, I think about how easy it is to just give in to those urges. I could cut a ladder, and the people closest to me would never know. No one would ever question or wonder. Because there have been so many instances that I've "bled" and cried for help and no one bothered.

They all have the same look in their eyes, you know. It's a blank, straight stare. Heavy lids, chin held a bit high. Eyes looking down on you, letting you know that they feel nothing. Monotone voice. 

So now I'm writing. I'm writing to drain the blood. I write, that's all I do is write. Shout into the void. I wish I could fall asleep.

I know I just need to channel all of this grief into something tangible, like alchemy. Into the cauldron goes a drop of my blood, sweat, and tears. They crystallize and form physical evidence of my pain. And then I let it go. I drop that philosopher's stone into the ocean like that one bitch from the titanic. Then I die and meet Jack and we scissor while everyone claps. 

I wish I lived next to a beach. Remember how they did it in the old days? If a woman was hysterical or depressed, a doctor would prescribe her a couple of months resting by the seaside to cure her ailments. I don't live by the beach. I live by stinking canals and cow shit. My "seaside medicine" is a 25 minute drive to Goodwill and a Dunkin' Donut coffee. And right now, I'm broke as shit.

"This is my private bed

This is where I lie at night

Staring at a light bulb hanging on the ceiling

Waiting for a dream to

Come and get me out of here"

Yeah, sing it Danny Elfman. I'm jammin'. I guess I will try to get some sleep in. I used to be afraid of falling asleep. I didn't know what would come and visit me while I slept. I would go places. Things would enter me. I thought they were watching me.

Now it's just my racing thoughts, and if there are no racing thoughts, there is nothing. No-thing. Emptiness. Nothing above, nothing below. No control.

Anyways, I'm gonna figure out what to do with myself. I'm deciding whether I should fight the drowsiness or succumb to the darkness. Fuck my stupid baka life.