I want to write. Somehow I can't. My emotions are in a whirlwind. I can't think. I can't sleep. Not eating either.

I need stability. I need....ten tons of shit i can't have.

There's a hole in my soul that was formed at birth, and hardened and greatened on april the ninth 1993. And all the liquor, cigarrettes, anger, and anything else i try to fill with it doesn't do it.

And the thing is, I finally know what might, and i can't have it. Is that irony? Poetic justice? Dumb fucking luck?

There is no patience left in me, and that's what's most necessary right now.

The DEEPER irony of it all, comes from the fact that having conquered my anger, i have doomed myself. See, in times past, all i had to do was get mad, hulk up, and kaboom, i'm invincible.

Now i don't even have that. I just feel empty. Echoes of better days.

Why am I writing this here? Who here knows me? Maybe that's the point. One of you knows me, the rest of you are only peripherally aware of my existence, and that's okay. I'm only here due to the one person that knows me anyway.

I don't feel better. I only feel the same. Getting it out accomplished nothing.

The temptation to crawl back into my cave, and try this again in another decade is very strong.