Barrel of Monkeys

I think I have a ghost on my trail, or something. Today went fine but of course I started thinking. You know I used to wish I had brain damage so I wouldn’t have to torture myself constantly with my own thoughts. Yeah yeah, not a wish you want to make, blah blah. Well it serves me fucking right because now I do have a form of brain damage, except it’s called schizophrenia and it only amplifies the chaos in this seven-layered-labyrinth in my head. That’s why I quit wishing for shit a long time ago. One reason, anyway. Of many. . .though it can all be boiled down to one simple fact: wishes and even prayers are a waste of time and deliver on a rare enough basis, that coincidence starts speaking to you more than god or even the people around you.

The problem with real people is that they’re never exactly what you would want them to be. That’s how I know I’m real, too. (Yes, sometimes it is that hard for me to tell.) 
Far as reality goes, one curvy bitch of a road. . .one straight shot is that I’m unhappy about being more dependent than dependable. More explosive than comforting. Less human and more of something that can’t be named. Whatever it is Briley sees in me must reside permanently in my own blind spot. This sweet young, and happy woman loves me. This should make me happy, but thinking about it I realize: the longer she stays with me, the more stress, bullshit, and possible mistreatment she’ll be exposing herself to. 
I may have had a mini-relapse last week but it was just that — a scale replica. 

Not to mention I can’t ever seem to be happy about anything. 
And I bitch about the fact.

I’m a barrel full of fucking monkeys. It’s on fire and the monkeys are stuck inside.




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Filed under consciousness, depression, mad ruminations, reality, relationships, schizophrenia

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