trade baby blues for wide-eyed browns

its strange the things that inform your writing versus the things that do not. its almost as though your words are shaped more by the things you do not say than the things that you do. there are many thoughts that i am scared to write down for many reasons. "the cancer of time is eating us away. our heroes have killed themselves, or are killing themselves. the hero then, is not time, but timelessness...." henry miller. i rock myself back and forth, this is not happening. people walk by. only eyes and smiles. "yeah im doing good". liar. it is a terrible fate to be given up on and only more terrible to give up on someone. the world is going by too fast out the window. it is impossible to even discern if there is a world out there because it is so dark and so fast. but i can only assume that the world did not disappear on me, though i couldnt blame it if it had. my head fades into the violet seat. i push my head to dream of other times but i cant fall asleep. it is pitch black outside but dawn in my insides. woke up again today. i believe i must have a disorder of some kind- or else why would i care about things so but act so carelessly. nevermind anything.