The Obscure

Son of a BITCH!

I can't get to sleep, I hate it. I'm in too much pain to sleep, then I take something for pain and my body, being pain-free, is suddenly filled with energy and a longing to go out or at least use some of my muscles a little. I am out of my sleeping pills, I took a huge dose of seroquel and it didn't do a thing!
Furthermore, what little writing ability I have seems to have atrophied since I signed up for this whole fucking college deal. I've written several essays thus far and they have all been utter shit. On top of that, my headaches are now at the point where I am actually taking a few weeks off of school, without having even completed an entire week yet. Four days, four days was how long I could go before my body cracked.
I hate being a fucking cripple.

It seems so often that I write of the terrible awareness mankind has of it's own existence, but then, it is that terrible awareness that keeps me up at night, and that sometimes brings me here. Give a man, a gun, one bullet, and 24 hours alone during which he would contemplate all the dark corners of his soul, and I'll give you a corpse. After all, it is only medications that keep half of our society from killing themselves, isn't it? And the other half is kept from killing us by only the threat of consequence. If you do not fear, or overlook, the threat of consequence, you very rapidly commit murder.
I am a man, I have a gun, I have a bullet, and I have had a lifetime to contemplate are the dark corners of my soul and have found nothing to my liking. My hands are tied with medications, my fingers peeled away from the trigger by the chemicals coursing through my blood. Give me me, unmedicated. Again, I will give you a corpse. Whether it be my own or not, I cannot be sure.
I have the unmistakable air of a madman. I shall go do what madmen do best: sit in silence and think about how crazy the world is.
Goodnight.