Over the last 96 hours ive slept only for 1 of them.
This is unrelated to my heartache, which has been ongoing for weeks.
I think im overly stressed, which is odd for someone who smokes as much weed as me, and has no job and isnt going to school.
At least ive been able to get above 50% wins on WC3 in my spare time.
Despite my 56k, and having not played in months.

Here is something I wrote in wordpad and I dont remember when or why I wrote it...

The walls have ears.
The ceiling has eyes.
The streets drip tears.
The people bleed lies.

I have no fears.
My heart is ice.
There are no peers.
No peace of mind.

Thoughout the years.
This has become my life.
Anything I hold dear,
can never be mine.

He waited.

Bathing in the sickly orange glow of the street light.
Enveloped in a low buzz of indistinguishable noise from the surrounding city.
He muffled a cough into his forgiving jacket sleeve.
"Less hygenic then a hanky. Better then my hands."
He said softly to himself.
The soft shuffle of steps echo'd in his ears.
He ponderously looked over whilst wondering who else would be out so late.
An old man and his equally disheveled terrier slowly strode past.

He waited.

His fingers fumbled with his lighter.
The last of his cancer impatiently waited behind his ear.

He waited.

An early 90's accord drove by.
The driver was engrossed in whatever music was being played, and seemed to be passionately singing.
He wondered if he was as passionate about anything.

He waited.

He took his last cigarette up between his thumb and index.
Blurring out the drab surroundings, he focused intently upon his weakness.
The thin almost non existent rings that coiled around it intrigued him.
He wondered at their purpose.
"PURPOSE!"
He hissed vehemently.
And with that, he broke it in two, and cast it into the street.
He listened to his hearts quickened pace as he stared at his hallow victory.

He waited.

The starless sky began to lighten, dawn a mere hour away.

He waited.

Traffic began to pick up. The annoyance of annoyed drivers began to invade his ears.
Disturbed by their insolence he went inside.
He sat in a corner of his room and stared at the adjacent.
Silent.
Alone.

He waited.

Slowly he examined his familiar hands.
The only part of himself that he recognized as being his own.
Isolated with the truest piece of himself he asked them...

"What am I waiting for?"

...

"Why am I waiting?"

His hands silently told him everything.
He folded them into fists and squashed them into his eyes.
As if in slow motion, he fell over into a semi-fetal position.
He hoped for the great big nothing of sleep to claim him.

And he waited.

Sleep deprived,
my eyes see lies,
see it to believe it then thats the truth,
and if the truth is lies,
then whats the use?
the machine of my mind screams in terror,
eyes are the windows of the soul,
and all I see is critical error,
pay the fare or just stare as we pass you by,
wether or not you ready for it,
stomp on the gas,
say hello to my hood ornament.

He awoke to the high pitched squeek of his cell phone.
He silenced it swiftly.
Checking it for the time, he saw it was 5 o'clock.
By the way his body felt, he knew it wasnt in the AM.
Last night was Valentines Day.
He spent it without the warmth or company of a female.
Instead opting for the less traditional drink Brandy till you cant walk straight, and smoke till you choke way of celebrating this ridiculous holiday.

The Brandy made him warm.
The smoke dizzied his head.
It was love, without the woman.

He chuckled to himself.
Happiness, especially sober happiness visited rarely.

Sleeping so long, so dead, dreamless.

It was as if he hadnt had a good nights sleep in months.
Which he realized, quickly, because that was true.

He laughed then.
Not the kind of appreciative chuckle, or giggiling hee hee's, or the overly forced haw haw's you hear on the street.
Real laughter.
Genuine.

No one really talked to him last night.
And he wouldnt have had it any other way.
He had forgotten that he hated people.
Despised them.

He had forgotten that he lived for himself.
He had forgotten that you have to be selfish.

He had forgotten that money doesnt make good people.
And good people rarely made good money.

He had forgotten that everyone is out to use you.
He had forgotten that you are out to use everyone else.

He had been saying it to himself for months...

I do what I want, cause I cant if I dont.

And he finally realized how true it was.

"Its like Cube says, "Life aint nothin but money and bitches."
-Jason Mews (Jay), Chasing Amy

"Warcraft 3 aint nothin but units and resources."
-28.8Gangster, Battlenet

He hadnt laughed so hard since he could remember.
The pressure on his bladder was too much, he got up and relieved himself.
He got himself a glass of water, which he half drank.
Then, he layed back down to go back to sleep.

He closed his eyes, and smiled.

Once again, he was able to sleep.
It was fidgety.
It was restless.
But it was sleep.

He had been up all night, but had slept during the dusk hours of the previous day.

He was an assortment of nervous twitches while he was awake.
Impatiently he bounced his knee.
Or bit at his fingernails.
Or shivered.
Or rubbed at his eyes.
Or wiped at his nose.
Or tugged at his sleeves.
Or drummed some beat that made sense only to him with his fingertips.

He longed for distraction.
And found it everywhere.
He cared for nothing specifically.
Anything to keep his mind off the emptiness.
But eventually, his mind always wandered back, and he had to find a new distraction.
He day dreamed incessantly.

He caught himself brushing his lips with his finger tips trying to rouse the very memories that plagued him.

He was on the verge of every emotion.
Each feeling would make its case to be felt and expressed.
And each one would rebuttle.
His mind, though tumultuous, felt as his own.
It was different aspects of himself, no longer the divergent factions warring for control.
He felt less crazy, though he was sure he appeared to be crazier then ever.

The subdued sounds of morning surrounded him.
Other residents of the apartment complex busily creating some sort of low carbs, high protien, atkins friendly, penis enlarging, mortgage refinancing, perscription drug abusing, teeth whitening, uber-breakfast concoction, that soon, he too would attempt.

He thought to himself dully.
Being born was already the worst day of my life.

Must not all things be consumed in death?
-Plato

His irrational happiness had ceased to be.
It had come about for no reason.
It left for no reason.
He stood out on his balcony examining the unimpressive view.
A street.
Some apartments.
A few stores a block away.
Those things matterd little to him.
There was one thing however that he liked to see.
There was a billboard.
This board, was unlike other boards.
Other boards advertised things.
And periodically would change and advertise something else.
This board however advertised nothing.
It simply had light bulbs that would indicate a steady rising number.
The board proclaimed innocently...

Smoking deaths this year and counting.

He liked to smoke and look at the board.
Today he did not smoke.
He just stood there.

Watching
People
Die.

He wondered if there was a car accident death sign.
He wondered if on that sign one of those numbers was his old highschool crush.
He wondered how long her number was on that sign before it was replaced by another.
It took about 2 minutes for a person to die on his sign.
He then wondered how many of his friends and family would be on this sign.
He wondered if he would be.
Another one gone.
And another one gone.
Another one bites the dust.
Today he sat and watched 36 people die.
Before the 37th had a chance to be seen he went back inside.

He was cold.

She shines, in a world full of ugliness.
She matters, when everything is meaningless.
Fragile, she doesnt see her beauty.
She tries to get away.
Sometimes, it just seems nothing seems worth saving.
I cant watch her slip away.
- NIN - the fragile

He felt rotten.
As if his insides were crawling with maggots.
His flesh clinging desperately to his bones.
He was alone.
Always.
He was alone.
He had been walking in the drizziling tears the sky wept for him.

Love is suicide.
- Smashing Pumpkins - Bodies

He drowned.
All of the sorrow.
All of the hurt.
He sterilized them all.
Disinfecting his corruption with the fiery liquidation only a Mad Dog could do.

He sat in an alcove in an alleyway on the side of his apartment.
AAA.
This was his roadside assistance.

There is nothing to fix.
Nothing to build.

Then he would burn.
Destroy.
Kill it all away.

He would need no assistance if he wasnt getting wrecked.

He threw his empty bottle against a wall.
Bathing in the shower of glass.
He laughed then.
Not the laughter of amusement.
But the laughter of anguish.
He stumbled off twoards the street.
Suddenly feeling self concious of the beer his friend had spilled on him earlier.
He felt hatred seep into him like the rain.
Their eyes are everywhere.
LET THEM LOOK THEN.
Let them hate.
Let them love.

He looked back.
Let them never forget that.

He sat on the desolate steps.
Ciggarette butts and the occasional puddle were his only company.
Touching his frayed knuckles he cursed his stupidity.
Crimson droplets seeped out of the skin.
His breathing became heavy, as he silently tugged at his hair.
He wished then to be touched.
A handshake.
A palm on the shoulder.
A hug.
Anything.
He felt dirty.
Obscene.
Disgusting.
Vile.
Unworthy.
Weak.
He was angry, sad, lonely, frustrated, desperate, helpless.

He was miserable.

The filthy grey sky drizzled softly.
With an empty disinterested gaze he watched traffic pass.
Sneering at the occasional annoyance of an impatient motorists horn.
He talked then to the memories of his friends.
He saw little of their tangible selves.
Some of them he would never see again.
Their apparitions listened to him, as he to them.
But all of them said nothing.
With an impotent gesture he angrily batted at the air and screamed,
ENOUGH!
He forced their nonexistent voices silent, and turned off even the obnoxious thoughts that infested his head.
He sat in the sunless gloom.
His hands prickly with cold.
Licking his chapped lips he closed his weary eyes.
He knew why he had dreamed of drowning so often.
It was a sub-concious sign of abandonment, and friendlessness.
Who drowns but the one who has no one to save them?
He had wanted his gravestone to proclaim boldly, The Last of His Kind.
But at this moment he drearily thought it would be much more suitable if instead it said simply...
Alone. Always. Alone.
Hardly anyone would pay attention to his grave.
Hardly anyone payed attention to him now, what else could he expect?
A cry for attention, how pathetic.
He wondered what was more so.
His craving for social contact, or that he knew not how to live for himself.
A leech.
He sucked life from all those that would have him.
Clinging desperately to them, whilst trying to convince them that his company was worth his parasitic pressence.

All the hatred, the pain, the cruelty, the lies, the anger, and despair.

They ruled him now.
He was a fool to believe himself capable of anything else.
Another part of his childish notions fell on those steps.
And there it lay.
Dying.
Reaching out.

He got up, dusted himself off.
And left.


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