i severed myself from my whole life and cut out the only thing that felt right. the pieces are only as good as the whole and eventually i'll unfold.

the confines of your own prison are becoming insufferable.

behind the walls of your own countenance your screaming, aching, and longing for the most minute amount of change. funny how life always seem to revolve around the minutiae of existence. it's even more funny how your greatest fears revolve just outside your reach in a galactic system that exemplifies your impending demise with each and every orbit the factes of your own pitiful self make around you. over and over again. around and around they go, taunting you into believing you can grab them-alter them. but you can't. they exist in infinity and absolutely.

what strikes the strongest chord of fear is that you're back here again....you're back to feeling absolutely lost....completely unsure....like a total failure...and alienated from everyone, even from yourself.

perhaps thats the cruel process of coming into your own. maybe that's the inescapable quotient of dividing your life into so many attempts to meet endless expectations.

whatever it is...you're here again.

back then you had a core group of friends. back then you had aspirations and goals that extended farther than the weight on the scale and securing a job that provides the highest monetary return. back then you could shirk the requirements of "the man" and just be. back then you had something to look forward to. back then you had the cover of immaturity to act a certain way and do certain things. back then you had drugs. back then you had an escape plan.

you have none of that now.

now you just sit and countdown the days until you can exile yourself from this wasteland. you place all of your hope on the glorious idea that in two years you're out of here and you get to start over like you always do.

escape is never the safest path, but its the only one you know.

and you know, all to well, that location changes are a temporary fix to a permanent problem. a change of scenery never equates to a change in the seemingly static nature of melancholy and onus, but there comes a point when anything is a better alternative than facing actuality.

you can't take breaks from reality, but you can try your fucking hardest to out-run it...to keep it behind you.

just keep on moving. keep doing what you think will keep your life running smoothly. relax, sit back and watch each and every parameter of your happiness tumble down slowly. have a beer. eventually things will get better. eventually you'll be free.

eventually everything will culminate and slap you across your daydream induced smiling face. slap you right back into weary submission. something will always remind you..something will always trigger you down an anamnesis path laden with the discards of your in-surround-sound and high definition fantasy you respectfully call your life.

your attempts are always applaudable, and they always do just a little better at keeping pesky certainty off your trail. you may even convince yourself that you've successfully escaped the total eclipse of your reveries--that you are home free.

your attempts always prove to be laughable to the powers that be.

you may be tired of being you, but the universe hasn't even started with you yet. more pitfalls and demise than you ever could possibly imagine lay in store for you, because that's what growing up is, isn't it? losing the solace of the opulent notion which so enigmatically states that "things always happen for a reason," and jumping head first into striving to merely get by, and knowing full well that things do, in fact, happen for a reason...

but that reason is routinely against anything that could even be remotely categorized as your desires, and that the resulting occurence leaves you with an acerbic taste in your mouth and another salty trail of disenchantment carved into the fleshy-crimson of your cheek.

they say you're open...that you're introspective...that you exhibit an immense knowledge of who you are

perhaps.

but the source of your each and every "open" and "introspective" word stems from the inescapable fact that you're sinking....slowly.

again.

its nothing new to you, except this time it seems lucidly more fatal. this time it seems resoundingly clear that you are absolutely stuck and you can't stop moving long enough to perceptibly rise above the current stratum you temporarily call home.

you move, you react, you make ammends, you plot....you sink further.

if you continue down this path you know the end result will be a return to the desolate and hopeless mess of six years ago who yearned for a way out--anyway out--and crawled further and further into themself. thankfully an arm was extended via hominal angels, glimmering affairs, chimerical outlets, and mind altering pharmaceuticals to help you break the surface and escape.

now you have nothing. now you have no one. now you're older and the edifice of independence forever prefaced as required for a successful future have been absorbed, codified, and implemented...and in all your aptitude you jumped through the hurdles and erected a tower of independence that sparkled your assent into adulthood.

you are independent. you don't need anyone. and you have no one, and you can't let anyone in close enough to be needed.

you just need a way out.

no matter. the end result is you're sinking and this time you can't do it alone...but a quick glance around reveals that no one's even within yelling distance to give you a hand.

you're completely alone.

you want someone to help you. you want someone to guide you back onto a better path. you want someone to tell you what to do. you can't do this on your own, you know that. and as your head permeates the very surface of your doleful abjection, its obvious that your a lost cause. even still, you use your last bit of fight to divulge your last wish...which really is the only wish you've had all along.

" help. please."