A thousand suns.

Rage. Pent up within the dark recesses of my mind, and brought to the surface by the lack of mental stability that couples unconsciousness.

And yet who am I to be angry? It was by my own failure that I am condemned to a life of solitary discomfort. Somebody shoot me.

I have a lack of coherent thoughts to write about. Only images locked like welded iron inside of my memories. How I wish I could forget. How I hope and pray that my mind no longer remembers and that it simply erases the images held within them. They continue to tear at my mind, the harder I try to relinquish them. What can I do but reprint them a thousand times over within my mind? I can do nothing.

Of course there's always a slight distraction, but none permanent, and none completely distracting. I'm always left thinking, one way or the other. Agh. My blight. My infirmity. I sing the phrase, "Woe Is Me" as if it were an autobiography. I do feel sorrow for myself, proving my weakness. I am unable to raise to my full height of self-esteem, because I am but the exoskeleton shed by the former me.

If I am to die in this state, I pray it is soon. Madness threatens the internal affairs of my own logic and sanity. Then what will I be left with? As I see it now, nothing. I will be left with nothing at all. So let my passing into the void be swift, that I am not forced to confront such a fate as the suffering plotted out by insanity, and free me from my burdens.

Ugh... And I hate writing in such a manner. I feel like I'm trying too hard to sound like Shakespeare. To be or not to be? Is it really the question, or are you just messing with us? I know the answer to the question either way. The world is so full of disappointments, the answer HAS to be the latter. Only an illogical person would choose the former. Yet there are those who love life beyond the point of logic, so an individual cannot simply dissuade them to modify their choice. Fortunately for me, I am not one of those who loves life. Perhaps the people that are connected with my life, but not my own. Especially not my own.

I'm getting tired and this post is getting boring. Blegh.