12-29-04 - 04:05
December 28. Six years ago. Sitting in a chair set in the corner of a cold and empty hotel room, wondering what the fuck he’s doing there. Wanting just to run from the world. Run to a new life, someone else’s life, something he was told would make him a man. Make him whole; fill the void left by death and distance. Would give him back that which was taken. They said “we can make you the best can be”, but the boy never thought to ask the best at what. Such a strange place to look for peace. The alarm finally rings, telling him now or never. Every thought in his mind screams at him to just leave, walk out the door, go home and live your life. But he brushes off logic and crushes out his last cigarette. This wayward child leaves his final chance behind as he shuts the door.
Three in the morning and I still can’t sleep. I can’t seem to sleep for more than half an hour at a time. Every day I spend half alive half dead. Wishing for all of one or the other. I’m never hungry, when I do eat I get sick. I can’t seem to get my hands to stop shaking anymore. The only time they are still is when I’m full of adrenalin. Nothing I can do about it. Just make it to the next day; things will always be better tomorrow. But it never is. It’s just some lie I tell myself to keep going. Hope is both a blessing and a curse. Hope drags you to the next day, week, month. Only to leave you broken and deluded. But it’s better than nothing.
“And damned be he who first cries “Hold, Enough.”".
