3 a.m.: a letter to confusion

Friday night. Three a.m. Sitting at this desk writing; listening to Eminem. Tried to sleep, just a peep, thirty minutes even; anything to keep on going for the next twenty four hours. Eyes wide open, tears stream down like wet banners, drowning me in that feeling bursts from the depth of my chest. I scream and try to keep it quiet. Thats's what life feels like lately. That feeling that you just want to scream, wild and free at the top of your lungs, but all that comes out is a muted, stunted sound for fear of waking up those around you. Just an animal trapped in a narrow cage in a sound proof room. I really can't take feeling like this no more. I'm tired of being sad, angry, and glad. It's all mixed up. No one feeling ever lasts. It jumps, twists, turns and pumps. It's something new, yet familiar, and the destructive dance continues. This cycle is making me do things I never use to do. I smoke too much shisha; sometimes when shisha doesn't help I smoke something else just to relax. It hasn't caught on yet, and I don't want to make it a habit. No sleep, no dreams, just confusion, questions, regrets, longings and silent screams. Work has got to go. This role takes up too much of my life. Before I know it i'll be fourty with a wife and two kids, working for minimum wage like a slave all the way to the grave. The marriage would probably end up like my parents. Mine are no better, they just get progressively shorter. Still haven't felt that feeling that I had with that one girl. I can learn to love, just don't know when or with who. I envy those people with long lasting relationships, especially lately. All this change can only bend a soul so much before it starts to deform and take a strange shape. A grotesque figure stares back at you in the mirror. I just keep getting older. Twenty three years old going on forty mentally. I just don't want the responsibility for upholding my image on everyone and the expectations and all. So what if I'm "successful" and have this small position of authority? It's not something I personally consider a big accomplishment, and in reality it means nothing to me. It's just money and stress thats not worth it. Life's one big test. It's a mess. What I write probably makes no sense. That's how fucked up and disjointed this stress is making me. The last few years have left me tired. It's time to retire and bow out as gracefully as possible, or maybe just walk out and say fuck 'em all. I need to live like a recluse for a bit, I need to take care of myself before I lose my health. Things just don't make sense lately, like the ink that spills from this pen to the page. This piece isn't even good, not even close to the skills I know I have when I put pen to paper...fuck it.