My butt hurts from sitting here with my laptop, frustrated to get over with my writer's block that's blocking me away from the only thing that makes sense in my life right now, writing. So I'll just write whatever comes off this effin' messed up head. I have been waiting to get into the groove again like those days when ink just came leaking from my pen and my fingers were like the legs of scary tarantula running for a prey. Oh I feel so old!. I'm beginning to feel more and more human again, just here feeling things with misty eyes, attempting to be all logical every half minute, getting more and more inhibited every second. That sucks! Now I'm twenty five. This feels like waking up from a very nice dream to be forced to see the reality of this stressful social scene wherein you have to look like, dress like, and lie like everybody else. I feel like being dragged to a cold shower of realities, that at this point in my life dreams will seize coming, and nightmares will come true. I have to live in this imperfect world for real. It's more like dying. For now, that's how I feel. Surprisingly, it doesn't seem to hurt as much as I hurt before.It's not the kind of death where you feel the pain of dying. It's the kind of death that simply and slowly is detaching your essence from your body. That's more tragic than physical death. That just don't make any sense. I got to find a way out of this. I need to cheat death at 25 and live the kind of life I once had. One day, it will all make sense.
