احوالات 12 می

Just to work and progress. Seems like a dream. Just to have that motivation now seems like a distance memory. Bugged off on cheap cigar and reminescents of head aches of dehydration and malnutrition, this is my last resort. This stupid white box. Clawing at this last bits of consciousness, I'm still sitting here, sweating and watching. This dust on the desk, this stale air I keep breathing out, all seems unfair, dead and soulless. I'm lost in this self repeating maze of sinking deeper and deeper into this weakness, this disability to change, to make things happen, anything. I keep scaaring myself with the images in my head that get clearer and more saturated with reality, getting trapped inside a dead body with a still functioning mind and sense, and these walls just keep getting higher and higher; so high and thick that I'm getting used to them, unconsciously forgetting about life out there. The cycle, the circle lives on, and the disease spreads through my mind gradually every single day. I just tend to forget about it and live with it, accept that it never changes, and accept that you're weak, you're not what you imagine you are, and whatever you may have been is probably asleep deep down there, he may or may not decide to wake up, whenever he wants, and you just can't keep sticking your fingers in his ears, trying to wake him up.

Whatever. It's just pathetic. Semination goes on, as does the smoke, as does the aches.