The Obscure

Ugh, and entire world of opportunities, utterly useless to the unstable mind.
Having just eaten (a term I now occasionally use after spending a lot of my time in the company of a Sharon) a big ol' dose of seroquel, I'm going to write here for 15 minutes to half an hour before I start to fade out, and then I shall stumble my way to my throroughly trashed bedroom and sleep for twelve hours on my couch.
Things are incredibly strange in the Colón household, lately. I won't get into it too much, but I haven't really been spending very much time here. Lena is living with the Stones again, I haven't seen or spoken to her in about a week. After spending the past year or so hanging out with her for hours every night while the insomnia and madness ate away at our brains, this makes me miss her. My, don't I feel gay?
My own mental health has gone a bit too far down the tubes for my liking, as well. Don't really know why or how, but I seem to have entirely lost my grip on reality. When I get particularly psychotic I start to lose my hold on the concept of time, and my memory slips more than usual. As such it feels like chunks of my life are being torn out and cast away, by the end of the day I usually can't remember the morning anymore.
I think I can chock that down to my whole, abandoning my medications, thing. Or maybe abandoning my medications was a result of it. In either case, the abandoning didn't help matters much. I'm down to about two roxicets a day now, though, which is less than half of what I was taking before. Tomorrow I plan to try and chop it down to one. More on that later.

I don't know why I have to be such a crazy bastard about everything, it really is kind of a mess. A man can talk and talk about how happiness is a conscious choice and how you need to make your own purpose in life--but at the end of the day, I really just don't have the fire in my belly to believe it. Let other people sieze happiness and find purpose, my life is utterly pointless. Inanity killed the cat, my friends, and no satisfaction will bring it back to life. Believe me, I spent six weeks blaring Stones' records at the corpse of Black Jack and he didn't even budge an inch.
That seroquel is beginning to take a hold of me, but I think I can keep this going for a little while longer.

A frightened child once looked deep into my eyes and told me how I terrified him. He refused, even at my pleading, to tell me why I was so gruesome. I love children, in the non-creepy way, too. Still, they run from me.
I had the dream the other night that I was driving around in a car, and a guy at a coffee shop was renowned for his obnoxious sense of humour. Don't you hate the people who are supposed to be funny but really just piss you off? Maybe that's just me.
Maybe I am one of those guys. Damn man, that's heavy stuff.

I have to go now, and army of snowflakes is crushing me.