Wrote this when I was drunk two days ago. About to pass out drunk actually...

Dizzy, tipsy, turning into what I don't want to be, knowing that drunk this will make sense, in a case that sober can't and will discard as fantasy. What is, and what isn't, just hates me and everything that isn't me in a way that I hate nothing.

Because I have thrown myself away into the bottom of a bottle, missing women like i miss deities, imaginary heart throbs, a lesson of times past to never trust nothing that won't kiss you back, mourning the times that you would wake up next to someone that would love you, but now staring at a ceiling that holds more answers than the outside world. Barring ourselves from others. Staring into nobody's gaze is local currency, challenges easily overcomed are spread from the sky to space as one will crawl to see the light.

I'm as desperate as nobody will see.

I'm as faithful as everybody can be.

I hate myself as much as I have faith in what I could be.

I could become as much as I hate myself to be.

I miss love.

I miss you.

I miss myself.

I miss half a kiss to eternity.

I miss the certainty of my actions.

I miss the distraction from personal self-loathing.

I miss the emotionless paralysis coursing through my body as I lay awake,

A stake through my heart,

Knowing that I love nobody,

And that nobody will come tell me the opposite.

And I miss knowing who to love,

As i can only live serving someone at my fullest extent,

As long as that person isn't me.

A sinking feeling is but a natural process, as the unbearable lightness of being nails us down on the plank, feeling every hit with more gruesomeness, indenting what the standard is, and pressing what we hope to be.

I am not against this.

I am not for this.

I am but ignorant to this.

I will flow as far as I can go.

I will float against the current and will swim against everything.

But it won't work.

Because nothing would work.

I hate loving.

As much

as

I love hating.

because

its all the same thing in the end.

Sleeping isn't the same if you don't remember about heading there.

Remembering isn't the same if you blur the porridge into puree.

Nothing is yours anymore.

Everything has been done.

You are not special.

Nothing you think is original isn't.

Your love will never be as strong as someone else's.

You always are going to be less alone than someone else.

And

if

everyone

is

in

deep

shit.

Your neighbour still is in the deepest shit.

But,

I'm still alive.

Which means you should probably all just stick a weapon to your temple. Because.

fuck

everything