I'm a lost motherfucker. I keep looking for some type of purpose but the passion ceases when the brain decides it's time to act. My mind and heart are as disharmonious as it can be and though I seek a union between the two, I can not manage such a thing. Aimless in my passion, I have no one to truly subject it to and for the first time in a while, I feel painfully empty. I remember this feeling two years ago, it was a lot more brutal then, but in its own unique way, it hurts more because my prey continuously teases me, allowing me to seep into the comfort zone only to be immediately expelled when I show the first sign of remission.
I write because it usually helps me paint a clear picture of things, a map of text to my subconscious but it hasn't impressed me at all. I've been disoriented, fully exploiting the state of intoxication to...escape.
I don't talk because nobody listens. nobody listens because I don't bother to explain. I don't bother explaining because nobody...understands. Nobody gets me, I'm just a fucking project. Something to look at, something to awe at, but it doesn't do anything for me.
The little things blind love can hide...ehhh?
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