My writing of late has become as anemic as the iron deficient blood trickling through my veins. I feel I have nothing to say; yet I am exploding with reason to speak.

Every inhale feels as if it's a landmine for tears.

Life turned into water at some point, and as I float a distance away from its warm core, the cotton blurred discomfort inside of myself hampers my ability to care or move at all. There is this... fundamental disconnect, from both the world outside of me externally and my self internally. For one who lives his life existing so entirely within himself, it makes just being feel so... unplugged. Turned off.

Am I really here?

It would stand to reason that the current state of things would be the cause, but upon evaluation, that would be illogical. Things have been worse, and I'm sure we could streamline this process to make it easier on us; hell, with any luck, it'll be over this week. Either way, we're not in butt-fucking ***********, and we've never been able to say that. No, it's not that. A more logical conclusion would be that perhaps, just perhaps, the pain and sorrow that we felt a year ago has stained us. Maybe this clenched emotion is merely a shadow, a subconscious pantomime of that agony. Or perhaps that reasoning is itself just an excuse to dwell.

These twenty hour days of craving sleep have given me too much to think about. It would be best for me to crawl inside the rose colored pain of some other mythos and existence, lest I lose myself to the internal static. More than I already have.

Where am I going? I don't know. While I was comforted by that a short while ago, it has just turned itself into another liability.

Where is my darkness, when I need to stay afloat?

"I need to be alone, while I suffer."

Destroy Once Done