Still Alive. Still Writing.

Alone again, naturally.

I haven’t written anything in such a long time that I had decided to quit writing. To quit being a “writer”. But here I am, typing.

I’ve been hiding with my head in in a whole for what seems to be my entire life. I’ve fallen in love with the idea of things and people without even knowing what they really were. My head is literally throbbing from too much salt in my head area. Or maybe it’s just because I quit smoking about a week ago and my body is still craving the nicotine. All I can think about is sneaking one through my bedroom window.

It’s been in my head allot lately, just climbing out that window, get in the car and just drive. To keep driving until I’ve reached the edge of Africa. If I have everything figured out then I might come back, otherwise I’ll just drop the car and catch a faerie to Europe. Maybe find my way to India, perhaps I’ll find my mind somewhere amongst the mass.

But instead of stacking my duffel-bag(which I don’t own) and climbing through that window whilst fumbling with the car keys, I’m sitting in the corner of my bed, half lotus pose with my laptop on my lap. I’m seriously considering never leaving this corner.

I just got out of a very dense sort-of-relationship. And even though I’ve been begging the universe to make it end all week, I’m still sitting here sulking like a baby. I wasn’t in love with him… I think it was more the idea of him. Of us. It was a pretty perfect picture. In my head any ways.

In reality it was just another fuck up of a relationship that I hide myself into to avoid the fact that I don’t believe in love. I don’t believe in relationships. And I sure as hell don’t believe in marriage.

We live alone and we die alone. Physically we might not die alone, but on the inside we will all be lonely and vacant as the fucking desert. It doesn’t matter if some believe in the wondrous Jesus, God has been the greatest disappointment of all.

Disappointment doesn’t matter, I’m not sitting here writing and feeling sorry for myself, sulking over my keyboard and a bowl of ice cream. I don’t do ice cream. It’s made for pussies.

I’m sitting here, sulking and feeling sorry for myself, trying to find, or remember what it is that I do believe in?

Knowledge, even if it is all lost when we die. But I want to fill my life and my head full of everything I can possibly fit into my mind. I believe in alcohol and drugs. I don’t mean the bad stuff. When I say drugs I mean coffee and cigarettes. And when I say alcohol I don’t mean drown your head in a glass of whisky. Just a little bit of these, just to take the edge of.

I believe in being vegan, not to save the poor animals, but because eating them makes you stink of death and I thoroughly believe it makes your insides rot.

I believe in tattoos and piercings and the art of meditation.

I believe in this. I believe in the words that I am able to capture, however few they might have come to be lately.

Instead of sneaking out that window and stealing a car (yep), I’ll just stay and try to face and find reality again. Beginning at this corner of my bead under my pillow. I think I’m old enough to stop dreaming of things that I have no intention of following through.