I so love insomnia… that nocturnal waking that languishes in the darkness, fighting to be alive when so much of you wants it to die. We battle it and always lose.
I wish I were smart. I wish that I had talent. I wish that I could do something that was useful. I am none of those things. I have intellect that seems unable to be applied. I have a knack and a savvy that falls short of actual talent. I destroy much better than I create. I am a coward and a fool.
I wish I could love, to be in love, to be lost in the wonderful awkwardness of tunnel-vision infatuation. But I’m too guarded, too cynical, too broken, too straight and narrow for that. I play it safe, get all the angles, hold back, and in the end I get nothing. I live the lounge version of my life. Death by Muzak. I have somehow missed all the lessons that prepare you for being happy with yourself, being content, being shameless. Instead I have this saccharine existence, artificial, cancerous, with an aftertaste.
I want to roam… to quest. I want to have a goal, a purpose, something bigger than myself that justifies me. There isn’t anything worth dying for anymore, not in my world of protective walls and vetted guests. I want to rage, to fury, to command, to triumph. There are no troops to marshal, no war to win, no evil to vanquish, nothing but lukewarmness and equilibrium. The heat death of my existence. Nothing but room temperature brine when what I really want is frigid clear water. it all seems like such a waste.