Looks like the first day of this thing is already done. Christ that went by quickly, I just played video games again for most of it. I'm not even really enthralled by any of it anyways, I'm just playing it so my mind has something to be occupied on, because there's not a whole lot else. I'm just on autopilot with it all, holding w to move forward through the wasteland in Fallout NV. It's not even something I really want to do, like it's more of a chore than anything. Without it my mind just wants to disconnect. Guess that's what these 40 days are really about - disconnecting from it all. My vacation.
God what the fuck happened to me? I don't even want to write this, anything. The words are too simple, it's all nothing it's all pointless there's no reason for anything to be done. I don't find enjoyment from really anything anymore. Even music is a chore now, fucking music. Drugs just make the time pass by faster, and I'm not waiting for anything anyways. Maybe this is what life in a nursing home feels like, this dredge. Every day is another nothingness. Shadows. Ooze. It's fucking scribbling garbage like a tyrade of a monarch who wants to leave but doesn't know where to go, out of energy always. Like a one time use sex doll.
This doesn't feel good this feels boring everything is boring everything is meaningless and empty and dull, I've seen this all before. fuck. How am I gonna get through 40 days of this shit? This chore, the bottom of the well. I don't even want to tell anybody anything I don't even want to tell. If there's no reason to continue the messages are relentlessly incessantly broken. I feel like I'm in a different place. Somewhere between worlds, where my subconcious is in charge. And since he's mindless, the world's mindless too. Creativity is empty now.
And I can't imagine a single place or a single gift or a single anything that can bust me out of this. Maybe I went too deep, can't get back out. The well. I can't help but picture it all as that, like a giant hole in the ground that's been drained for decades, that used to feed a city but has dried out, everybody's gone but me. And I dove in there, rope tied around my ankle falling down, the bricks, the grey, so deep the hole above is missing too. There's no more light, and there's no more enjoyment, and there's no more emotion because this well has everything written on it's bricks in bright red ink. And the deeper you go, the darker it gets, the more you find nothing in it all. The truth that there's no reason to do anything, that everything's already been said and done and written and borrowed. Time is my rope, the bricks are the people and I am the Amazing Scandelous Brandon, diving to entertain the minds of the people. This hole is my stage, this is my peace.
Peace doesn't mean anything to me anymore. I don't know what that means, happiness is suffocating me, my depression is asleep but my insomnia lies in deep meditation, still but ready. Still but ready. I thought this would help, it's not really doing anything. I'm running on a treadmill to nowhere, and I've long since given up on myself. So where do I go from here? Why do I go anywhere? What do I want? Where is the treasure? What purpose is there for motion? When do I begin?