Insomnia

I hate trying to go to bed, and finding you can't sleep. I'm so fucking tired that I've zoned out while trying to write this, but the moment my head touches a pillow, I'm awake, full burn.

I'm miserable. Not because I'm out here. I'm just miserable, can't sleep, can't feel anything. My feet have gone to sleep. A million thoughts run through my head, at a million miles an hour, about a million different things a million different ways. A veritable mess of bullshit filling the space between my ears, and it won't let me sleep until I sort through it. One bloody concept at a time.

One bloody thing at a time. One bloody step in front of the other. That's all I've got to focus on. Nothing else matters right now except moving forward.

An exercise in insanity. View yourself as your friends see you. Truly, it is maddening. For they know nothing about you, and yet profess to know you.

Madness. I'm wondering tonight if I'm hearing one voice too many in my head. A friend of mine was being hussled off to the psychologist, because she was stressed from schoolwork. Wrong action. Go see a campus councellor if the school work is getting to you. Psychologists should only be seeing psycho's like me, who seem all put together until somebody tells them something they already know, and they... how did Simon put it? Snap, LOSE IT.

Nobody says anything. I can hear noise, I can see lips moving. But none of it resolves itself into my mind as something being said. I can't hear you. I don't know what you're saying.

Everyone likes to talk about someone, it's like a circle see. They talk around this person. They talk above this person. They talk behind this person. All around and around, things are said. Many of them could be true. The important stuff is false. But the person in the middle doesn't know. They don't hear anything. All they see are grinning faces, and a little voice at the back of their mind tells them to watch out for the hyenas.

Everyone wants better for themselves, to find everything they could ever want. Nobody ever sees the cost of their actions, as long as it makes them feel good. There's been a Holocaust of conscience, and we are once again looking away as their ashes fall down on us. When are they going to come for mine?

People like to look for their better half. The dating game, I guess it's called. But people don't love people. People love themselves, and what they see of themselves in other people. People love how other people make them feel. Needed, loved, warm, sexy. Whatever. It's all illusions. People don't love people.

Aspiration was what once drove us, but it's dead. We're climbing down the ladder, not up. We're digging our grave, not our future. Money and sex. With those two things, you can wrap yourself in the warm, fuzzy blanket of apathy and sail off to the never-land between here and fuck-all.

And here, the best place to put a gun is in the ground, or on your chin. Never again do I want to see a grin and a barrel within the same three metres of each other if I can help it. The best way to kill your enemy is to let him live for about 80 or so years, and then decide if he was really worth killing.

And all around, there's an indescribable brutality that everyone feels but nobody sees. Because they won't look. It's like looking at the rabid hound. If I don't see it, maybe it won't see me, and it'll leave me alone. Or at least, I won't have to look into those ravenous eyes, or see those teeth amidst the slavering foam and lolling tongue. The bite will be quick, and the end painful, but at least I will be innocent and not see it coming.

Where am I going? Where is my map?
Where is my bed?