brown veined and hungry

I don't have to sleep to have nightmares anymore. They creep in from the back of my mind. They explode with all the colors of a lavish cold funeral. They get to where I think to much about everything so they don't take me over. The little tendrils that have wrapped themselves around my neurons; strangling everything about me I used to love. Walk, go, what are they doing, what am I doing, where is this going, what is the point, when will I be happy, x, y, and z will make me happy but those things are unattainable.

I don't want to do this, or that. I don't want to care about anything. Not caring sounds easy and that is what we say about people that have it worse than us, we say " they don't give a shit about anything, look at them". Not caring is hard. You try so much to not let anything get to you and you lose something else, something more important. In not caring there is far more pain. You wake up one day and realize the rest of the world gives a shit, they let everything get to them. Now that you have become that distant person no one gives a shit about you anymore. I've went through my loose attachments with what seems to be normal life, pulled out the scissors, and cut those ties one at a time thinking I was the balloon end, alas, I was the ground. Those balloons carried my happiness, my future, love, honor, respect, friendship, loyalty, and joy. They floated into the sun and burnt up.

Now I walk through the crowds like the living dead. I hardly raise my voice above a hum. I don't shake a leaf from it's spot in the gutter. I make little more wave in the world than a sleeping spider. It doesn't feel good. Not much feels good.

I stand on the subway platform looking across at the people standing. I think for a moment of something I wrote and I smile. There is hope. I pull this memory out and I want to hold onto it forever. The beauty I have found in my own creative energy is more than any prescription of zoloft could ever give me. I will leave you on that note.