Shit, I feel disgusted with myself. Sometimes I pretend that I'm a writer but hell, my mind just goes blank all too easily. But that's alright, yep. It's alright. I've got a solution you see. Let's just say that it's name starts with S and ends with E. Sometimes I hear the cries of those who say it's a permanent solution to a temporary problem. And I digress. Oh how wonderful it would be for my life to have come to a stand still from a single distressing problem. I suppose for me, it's more akin to my entire life being that single distressing problem. Never could I pinpoint the epicenter of my disgruntlement, I wish I could. Always it seems that my entire life, from birth to present has been some sort of flux within the time line, perhaps a bit of a slip up from that old white geezer in the sky. I was born different, born strange. For it is to my own observation and discretion that most normal children would not isolate themselves during recess and withhold memories of literally walking about in circles, muttering pseudo-philosophical ideas to themselves. I couldn't say I was ever happy in my life, I guess my strange childhood was bearable to me at that time, drowned out in the intoxicating haze of neutrality. But now spin the clock, and what do you find? That child is gone, and instead it is I. But wait, that last statement is false! For that child never left, as it is still I, just a lot more miserable and equally outcasted. For all those billions of minutes that have passed by from then to now, I've never changed. The scared, confused, and weak child is still here, still crying. I don't know what else is left. Misery has fully ingested my soul. I try to escape, survive the hell through coping methods but the more I heal, the more I destroy. No time for healing in this society. Everyone's on a schedule, everyone's got something to do, money to make, exams to take, smiles to fake. Our species eat the wounded ones right? One trip, one fall, and you'll be left behind, trampled, stepped on, murdered by society. The fallen are left to die. Sometimes I think I could of become somebody, but hey, whatever right? Every time someone dies, another baby is born. I wonder if maybe when the floor and walls drink my blood, and my last breath is drawn, that I shall return again, elsewhere with a new body, new hopes. But I wouldn't want that, no. For the fallen are quite tired, and I...just want to sleep forever. Let silence be my eternal requiem.