Let people deal with their mortality in their own ways for it's a rite of passage no one has a right to interfere with. The collected sins exploited in our youthful ignorance is a chronic curse with the inheritance of wisdom and experience... tearing away at our blissful innocence so tastelessly and abrasively. It felt so much better indulging in a fuzzy image, when I'm not really sure what I'm looking at. Now I see it, and I ask: What is the point in having a sharp insight if it's only to see a fuzzy and pixelated blur of an image? The depth of this pretentious gift called insight is about as shallow as if it were blurred like everyone else, the only discovery it makes is the notion that there no one to share such an awful experience with me. It and I are not worth permanence for anyone. It's not worth the scars. Then I wish I could care less about myself so I can drown myself in southern poison and then at least I get some sleep. But I can only sit down and ask myself What does matter? Shed this sleeping state and just blackout. This is a darkroom and it's an awfully attractive and confining box.

I certainly wouldn't mind being locked up in a dark room, devoid of absolutely everything but food, water, a can, and myself. It would be a delightful delicacy to be able to enjoy such promising journey through my weary head in search for both questions and answers. To sit and realize my state of tantrum. My reasons for fear of commitment, my desire to hurt the ones I love, my need and compulsion to lie, my sense of worthlessness in confessions, my flaws and insecurities. So I want to be locked in a room and be rewarded with silence and abandonment. At least then I'll be in congruence with my state of mind. I'll no longer feel sick. It's like walking away from motion sickness. The mind has been living the action and reaction that doesn't exist, sending shock and adrenaline through my thin-walled veins all the while nothing was really happening. My body believes I'm poisoned so it's trying to purge the toxins. It's giving me all sorts of signs that I'm not well, that I'm sick. After all, I feel like I'm in a dark room feeling out the cold concrete walls, the pockets and rough pores...the faint powder of chalked fingernail... I know I'm wandering through high adrenaline works that gives me some sort validity and acknowledgement in my existence.

The pain is like splinters buried deep in the palm. It itches and bothers a lot, but it doesn't necessary pose a danger to life, it only affects my performance from under my skin, and people don't see it. If I do major and heavy work that excites me enough to forget about it, then maybe I can let time pump it out... but when I'm done with work and I lie down at night, thinking about how there can more than just this. Always looking for the next work to forget about what I lost. I want it back, my ignorance and state of innocence. There's nothing left to prove who I was before. So I scratch. I can't get it back, but I can scratch at it and dig out the splinters. It hurts. It hurts and it's brutish but I need to take it out. I don't want to wait for time to push it out, I'm too impatient for it. I need to get out. I can't take it under my skin anymore. I can't have it with me anymore. I need to breathe. So I scratch, I tear at it, I scrape it against the walls, I pound it against the wall. It's numbs... so at least I'm too tired to think about it.

Optimism in a state of despair is truly a perfect self-perpetuating machine. The fuel for despair never runs out. The glass is always half-full, you can always expect more of failure. It's a never-ending supply you can always readily count on with or without the help of others. It's simple, just make a promise and don't keep it. Plan an expectation and fall short of it. The list goes on and on. The feeling of despair is easy. It's such a luxury to be able to count and rely on something with such great confidence, it's disgusting. It's borish and over-indulging. Then again, why would it matter, it's rock bottom already. It's the inability to get out of a locked room. A dark closet where nothing can be seen. It offers a new and unique experience of human emotion that people often neglect because they're afraid of the dark. Put your hand out, feel around and quickly you'll notice it's cold, it's porous. There's the spot where I run my fingernail into the wall to feel it. Feel around some more, it'll take some time, but eventually you'll realize I'm right back where I started. A dark room with splinters in my palm.

I've only distracted myself long enough to realize I'm here again.