The coffee doesn't wake me, and the ambien doesn't put me to sleep. I get anxious. My palms sweat, my beard grows, my alarm chirps, my lights work. I feel nothing but sorrow on some days, and other days are the bad ones. I've always been able to make the ones around me happy, the clown who cries on the inside. I like the sunrises better than sunsets, but like to sleep past them both better.
The cool air is a change, and the humidity is about all that makes it unbearable. I become more and more immune to this rank and disgusting virus. It only makes me sick to think about when I have the time to. My brain hurts more at night than in the morning, and at least it makes the drive to work bearable. I try and find positives here and there, but eventually subject myself to the major populace thinking and bask in the glory of my own suffering. Perhaps just to tell you I had it worse.
Whatever it is, the mood swings, the thoughts, the logical paths, conclusions, reports that I file with myself; well they just aren't going to stop any time soon. Like Minnesota would be a could term to describe how I feel. Escapes to cabinesque places help me to forget, but the rude awakening Monday morning is almost too much to handle on some days. This week was a rough one, and if I had had today off, I could've handled it a whole lot better.
I got tired of the third grade teacher talks 15 minutes before they even happened, and I told myself what I've always told myself about situations that have no fix, and that's that eventually the pain, the suffering, the torment: it all ends.
The ball is out of my court in almost every aspect of my life. To have no control, to have no control in what you want, to have no control in choosing some basic freedoms. To have no control is to be a slave. A slave to work, a slave to the man, a slave to love, a slave. A slave is dire. And most dire situations, well we hope they all come to an end. Surely they must.
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