I spent tonight at a pub, a half empty old fashioned in front of me, with its repulsive taste that I voluntarily choose to swallow. This journal and pen are my companions tonight. Empty glasses, a mind full of thoughts, moving in and out of focus. Why am I really here I ask myself, why did I come, after an exhuasting day of things? Is it to rebel against my own self, or to say that I did something new, that's unlike the repetitive hammering of reality. There are many, countless emotions that run through every crevice of my body, if I were to give in to one of the dark temptations, I'd probably just end my life. But the truth is, where is the actual pleasure in that? It is in this suffering, alone, that I find my happiness. The exhuastion in my body, the feelings of emotional and physical pain rivet my soul, and in turn give me purpose. I yearn to hurt. For that is all I've ever known. I don't even hope for happiness, for no such thing exists. The longer I "hope" for this arbitrary realm of goodness, the longer I'll be disappointed. That is not to say that I have given up, or that my vices have taken over me. More so that this feeling of suffering is my only comfort. I shall hold it close, so close to never let it slip. So close to never let it leave my sight. For every time I lose sight of it, is when I know it is right around the corner.
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