and I can’t go back to sleep no matter how hard I try

everything’s haunting me again and I just feel so mad and alone and bent on running— just running— to nowhere, maybe

and I’ve never felt so angry at the universe— at the omniscient being, who, I thought, knew a lot better than to do this and that

they say never to let the bad things ruin you but then, what are you to do? stand up strong? and then what? act like nothing happened? screw my soul for being such a perfectionist— a tad bit too much as to dread a mere stain in a useless piece of tapestry

                                    .

the things i once felt were real and as i try to bring myself to sleep, i realize these things, these stupid things that come anyway despite how useless they are at any given time frame because there is nothing i can ever do about them but sit and stay and sigh and get back to the life i barely even like

— does anything even matter anymore? it’s funny how i could get so caught up with the going-ons of this world— beauty, fashion, knowledge, power, entertainment— and yet, here i am, dangling over the edge of one day, tipping towards the other, recollecting thoughts and thoughts and thoughts and thoughts and more thoughts, pointless thoughts i can’t even stand—— here i am, just waiting to get ruined all the more. ruined, pained, hurt. doesn’t the world have a deadlier jab than that? i now find myself obsessed with the perfection of imperfection, an obsession to which i would gladly oblige.

if this is what the heavens want me to show off— that i am the product of a world whose very core is infused with everything i brought myself up to not become— then, by thunder, that is what they are going to get.

now, i find it hard to believe in the idiocies i used to believe in. the absolute? the unconditional? the downright pure? hah! there are no such things in this world we live in. everything seemingly close to the aforementioned are mere illusions molded precisely for the purpose to give you something to hold on to, at least, in your sad excuse for a life. something to make you live out the rest of your journey. something. ironic how escapism can lead you to finish everything you’ve started anyway. hah. i should have listened when they kept on saying that “everything turns into ash”. dirty, pointless, soulless ash.

bah. hunger, homelessness, war. if not for selfishness and greed, these problems can be solved, and would be, in fact, very easy to solve. feed the hungry, give shelter to the homeless, make peace. the only reason why any of these things are taken seriously is that because nearly everyone is an adult and is expected to know what they’re doing, most of the time. (Sadly, that is not the case.) The real problem here, anyway, is loss. Loss of body. Loss of mind. Loss of heart. Loss of soul. What could possibly heal all these deep gashes inflicted upon you by who-knows-what? By fate? By destiny? Who is to blame? Who must be blamed? Why won’t anyone step forth?

And what are you telling me? Time can heal all wounds? Cliche and ignorant. You should know that time is our enemy, and that nobody can ever beat time. Why the hell would it want to heal us?

Dementia probably would. But then you’d have already wasted about 18-25 years of your life. Sucky solution, but that’s the closest I can get.

jfklejflkjwlkjlkwjgjwrkljg I have no idea what the hell my point is. Life is but a speck of dust in the swirling universe and we are all just tiny fragments time can do better without? That works.

I bet that by the time I wake up later in the morning, when the sun is up, I’m going to forget this resentment I’m feeling while typing these words down. I’m not sure if that’s good at all.

             .

Things… are alright, actually. My life is okay. I mean, it’s something I should be happy with. Things feel okay. Everything should be okay! I’m okay, right? Am I? Of course I am! Or am I okay only because I’m supposed to be— because it is what is expected of me? … scumbag brain. Hahaha. It feels as if I’m the only one who doesn’t belong to this equation.