- - - - - nope, not really a jax
Previous - this entry written on June 06, 2003 at 8:59 pm - Next


I have a playlist that's only 16 songs long. I can't breathe. My stomach is tearing itself apart. I don't recognize myself in the mirror, there are things crawling on the edges of my vision, and I want to run and scream and bleed and beg until I have something to take it all away.

All of it.

How could I possibly be afraid, horrified, disgusted, by anything that anyone else on the fucking planet might be hiding when there's something this deathly-vile curled up inside me?

Heh. Scott, you are a voice of rationality, as are you, Ryan. Rationality and I stopped living on the same planet years ago, haven't you figured that out? I'm fucking checking for new updates every few hours, I'm waiting for something that yes, it IS a dream, a box of faded memories and I shouldn't even want it.

Watched a large chunk of Gia.

Thus my disgust with myself.

Realizing that it felt, watching that, as if I was watching someone picking up bits and pieces of my life and throwing them around someone else like a fur cloak, worn once, tossed away. Not gonna watch that again. Recognition isn't pretty.

Addicted. Sick. Confused. Hurting. Lost. Needing. Craving. I don't know how much of what I feel is the infection, how much is a kidney stone, how much is just the fucking nerve damage, how much is stress, how much is heat, how much is withdrawals, how much is lack of anti-seizure medication and lack of anti-depressant medication and lack of antibiotics and lack of painkillers and lack of food and lack of damn near everything else necessary for survival right about now. I don't know.

I may look down on people, the ones who show themselves to be nothing more than sheep... but even then, I know I'm only a hair's width higher than they are.

'Scuse me. 15 songs.

My head is pounding, I'm coughing up phlegm and blood, my nose is running with streaks of red, my hands are trembling, I can't sit still but moving is agony. There's cold air out in the washing-room, but it's too dry. Feels like breathing bits of ground glass.

Can't be here. Can't get anywhere else.

Nothing else to do. No one else to be.

Little jittering black-and-silver specks, stupid visual distortions.

No, no spells, no magic, just too much heat and not enough medication and me, falling apart, why do I keep leaving the fucking gate open?

Evil.

Hurts.

Fuck off, I don't care if she's bad for me, I never have, hasn't anyone picked up on that yet?

I want something to matter.

I can't feel my hands.

I can't breathe without wincing, can't swallow without gritting my teeth.

Nothing is real.

Nothing exists.

...gods... it hurts!

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