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I listen. Because I have to. I wait for a chance to speak but it doesn’t come. Silence. It’s as if I don’t have a voice anymore. My thoughts are scattered as death lingers like an old friend. Except, I have no friends. But ole death, he’s near. Always is.

I want to take up cigarettes; not to be cool. But to deal, cope, curb my emotional appetite. I’m so careful, too careful to really unleash the real stuff swirling around inside my wrecked mind. I’m not you, or him or her or the normal. Maybe I’m just wasted. Space, or not enough action. Who knows. I do, but I fucking don’t. Trust me when I say I want the medication to alleviate the symptoms I experience on a daily basis but I’m scared shitless that I’ll change and won’t be the same; the wild, young cub, untamed and unphased by the world. In which we try to assimilate to. I’m an old soul or I think I am. I’m not really, I’m vulgar I’m sick I’m unwell. Treat me doctor, please. Fix me so I won’t feel this way.

The cure is miles away in a land before time. I’m not crazy, I’m just fed up. Seek and ye shall find. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. Forget it. I’m breathing for now. I’ll be back tomorrow. Death and I have a few more neurotic rounds still to go. Save me a seat. Or don’t. I’ll eat the American dream in the meantime.

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