There's life down below me though.
2002-03-04 22:08:26 (UTC)


I often think of that man I saw on tv who died because he
couldn't fall asleep. His brain would not let him sleep.
And he finally just drifted into death, at last sleep.

My sleeping patterns are probably the most telling of my
mood. Sleeping when I shouldn't, not being able to when I
need to. Until dreams become reality and I stuff myself
full of this place's pretty pills, and there is no
difference. It's not life, just survival, through a glossy
gaze and the exhausted images that pass over my vision.

Times like these I struggle, because I know in my
frustrations it isn't fair to subject anyone to it in a
negative way. Even the people who I feel have abandoned me.
I want to yell at my mother and cry at my friends for
everything they haven't done for me. Don't you know that at
this moment I feel so solitary, so empty and so desperate
for the part you play in my life? And I never say so...
because I tell myself that they know deep down. They know
that they haven't been enough, only that they were at one
time and that is enough reason to fail me now. When I just
needed you for a few minutes more. It's all that would have
made the difference, twenty minutes, an hour of your life
to make mine more livable.

So here I sit, in the success factory, listening to the
machines grind in my subconscious. Watching the little
obedient workers, scraping through their shift that never
seems to end. Is this me? Am I so cold and muted? What
about when I scribble some food for thought next to classic
prose? What about when I make love instead of going through
the motions here? What about when I whisper I might leave
this place? What about when I see this place when it's a
factory... when it's not so worth its praise? What about
when I see the world when it's not worth its praise? This
faithless world.

It always happens when I have too much work to do. I'm
overwhelmed and I hate that. I like the fast pace, but not
the insanity that is required here. I like to love and
work, not work away what love I may still possess. And I
sit here, angry and frustrated and radical... wondering
what the hell it's all for. The success factory. What's it
all for when you're not really happy? What's it all for
when even the people who are supposed to care simply don't?
Where does fate take you then, swept away in your little
boat to a world for the people who couldn't stand to be
society's little grease monkeys.

I might know one day what it's like to be mediocre. But not