roll on down.

November 10, 2010.


i’m tired. i’m assuming it’s the lack of sleep. my mom complained about the dark circles around my eyes. i’m tired but i can’t sleep. i’m tired and annoyed and sick of everything and everyone. i have no desire to talk to anyone. to see anyone. not even to listen. i’m too tired to listen. to have people complain about their fucked up lives to me. mine’s enough to handle at the moment, i don’t need anyone else’s problems. everyone’s annoying me these days. everything. i annoy myself. i can’t even write anymore. nothing comes up. there’s just so much shit going on and i don’t know anything anymore. all i want is cigarettes and drinks. girly, pretty drinks or beer and hard shit. just anything to alter my mind for a bit. to maybe take me away from whatever the fuck roams around in this tiny, boring brain. all i see are faces now. sometimes faceless voices. mostly voiceless faces, distorted with a reality that i am in fact, not even here sometimes. that when it’s cold, it’s when i’m surrounded by a dark and empty room with red pictured walls and notebooks everywhere. most of them with nothing but bullshit written in them, with girls’ names written all over its pages. the names of those three who came into my life to just pack up and go. blood and tears on the fragile pages along with random lyrics of whatever i was listening at the time. dates at the top of what was written. nothing but sad, pathetic, high school-esque, ridiculous shit that i’ve made a mistake of writing online. nothing but a nothingness of whatever the fuck this girl is. empty pages at the end of some notebooks. i never completely finish them. there’s always a page or two at the end that are left empty. i can’t ever finish anything in my life. it’s never warm, not when i write, it’s always cold. the tips of my fingers feel like my nose on a freezing winter day. emotional unavailability is how this life should be lead. all emotional availability does is, fuck me over. every single time. it’s okay, i get it. but it also gets old. i long for warm days, not with really with anyone, but with myself. when i can actually sleep. when thinking is not all i do. when dreams aren’t nightmares. i long for those days when it’s cold outside but my jacket is enough to keep me warm. i miss my sanity at times. nothing seems real these days. talking, walking, touching, smelling, drinking, eating, sleeping, thinking, breathing, feeling, they’re all in some dream or nightmare that i can’t seem to wake up from. pain consumes me violently. everything hurts and it’s numbing me. being numb isn’t real. maybe my pain isn’t either. i know nothing.