A SERIES OF UNTITLED DREAMS

          Far too often does it seem as though I'm setting my self up for
          the overwhelming amount of despair that comes, so neatly
          packaged, with what happiness does garner its way into my
          life. The pathetic amount of loathing and despair I have
          subjected my life to over the past few weeks makes me feel
          like my existence has become nothing more then waking up at
          odd hours of the night to move back in front of the
          ink-covered pallet. I've closed myself off so much from the
          world, that I'm constantly feeling cold and sick to my
          stomach, to which, at one point, a cup of tea and a few
          hours of emptying my brain on to the blank canvas would
          provide the much-needed fix which self loathing and
          pharmaceuticals cannot. Now... Now, nothing works. The ideas
          come out skewed and blurry. As the ink spills, I can't help
          but feel as if it's a waste. Lately, it feels as if
          everything is coming undone; The thin lining of string that
          was once holding something together is now snapping apart
          as, whatever it is, struggles to break through. The thought
          of even leaving this cavern I've burrowed myself into forces
          me into uncontrollable shaking at the very thought of
          allowing myself to indulge into any more unnecessary
          emotions or passion. As negative as this rotting mess has
          turned out to be, I do find some comfort in it. When left
          with the very few options you do have in alleviating some of
          the discomfort from this whole charade, you do realize that maybe
          it's better off forcing yourself into a shell of sorts, to
          prevent anything of value from leaking out, or anything
          which may be a prelude to tragedy in. I've pretended for far
          to long that things outside this room, outside my brain,
          mattered enough for me to want to force myself endure the endless
          vexation. Although I guess this has proven to be therapeutic
          in the weakest sense of the word. I haven't gone off the
          edge yet... I think. Everything seems so soporific and
          monotonous lately, the sound of the few peoples voices that
          once brought the much needed solace only serve to agitate whatever
          may be festering below. I can't say whats going on. I just
          feel as though things are taking a turn for the worst, and
          something is pushing its way threw my body. The creative
          centers of my brain feel washed out and empty, like the
          nerve endings are frayed and too dead to connect to anything
          of use anymore. I wish I knew what was happening. Whatever
          is slipping away, physically or mentally I'm not sure. This
          feeling of frigid delirium mixed with nausea that you only
          get at a crowded amusement park watching that one kid wander
          into the wave pool to recycle the blue slushie he just
          downed.

          I need a new life.