End of Days

5 weeks in a box. in a cast. no in a box. 3 weeks in a cast. a month sick with a week's reprise. nothing done. forward movement escapes me. I watch myself function through a mirror. I watch myself reflected. I see my smile; I'm smart enough to play off my reactions, smart enough to give just enough to each person to keep them from thinking I've lost it. I haven't lost it. I never had it. Every moment in life is just a motion that I could have chosen to make differently. Each a section of a play I could have written to change, but still written. NO5THING IS REAL.

nothing is real. A wandering man is never truly happy. I could stop here, or there, or here, or here, or there, or now, or then, or soon, or never, or never, or never, I could start here, or there, or here, or now, or never. or ever. It makes no difference. Each is a still-walk through a motion that I watch through a reflected shield of glass. I stumble and try to live so that no one will bother me. So that no one will bother me. So that no one will bother me. I'm a juggler, I juggle so that no one will bother me. Integrity means nothing. Love means nothing. Hurt is real and so is escape. I avoid hope and live for small moments of pleasure. I am less than the animal. I am already dead.

Things I will do soon. Find a job, so that no one bothers me. Escape or Continue this relationship, depending on how much hurt/bothersome action is involved. Continue or Discontinue another relationship, depending on how much bothersome action is involved. Finish school very late, minimal action. I may get caught up again in it, to the point where I forget about the motions..those are the best times b/c I can act without knowing I'm acting.

I don't want to die. There is nothing to live for except the next scene, because I'm here and there isn't anything else to do.

Cue Action.