ain't no rest for the wicked

dripwave lines of india ink are trickling down my cheeks - royal blue, and with the curiously pearlescent consistency of cold mercury, they trace and stain a roadmap like collapsed veins on pallor.

lying, flat on tarmac with soft roots crawling through the warm black to writhe around my ankles and wrists - pinned in place for the oncoming storm that waits just beyond the fog of war clouding my common sense and disposition.

we are all dead men, waiting for something to cut our chains to this mortal existence - we all long to fly, to float, to melt away and evaporate into the next reality. briefly, reality flashes through the clouds like dark lightning, stunning us into silence

sometimes i wonder who built me. and why. there has to be a reason - i am not wandering blindly down the garden path, there must be a reason why i seem to be force-fed so many life lessons and emotional trepanations this early on - I have so many friends, peers and colleagues who are simply content, naive and well-heeled with their existence of school, university, work or religion - unable to fathom how easily everything can fall apart in your hands

after my party on saturday, i'm off drugs again. going to make a serious, concerted effort this time and not use them to cushion the blow the first time something fucks up for me

because, let's face it - something always fucks up for me, and to be honest, it's usually my fault. i need to develop better coping mechanisms then a handful of pills or the cold end of a crackpipe and a few hours of self-pity.

wake up, neo. you are needed on the dancefloor.