I’m not want you’d call or consider suicidal.  How can you be suicidal when you’re numb?  I think if there were a door to walk through…  A door where you simply… cease to exist…  there’s  high probability that I would take the short route to get there..

Exsistance…  Sustinance…  When did the basics change?  What is needed to survive?  When did daily makeup become a yearly affair?  And when was the last time I was happy?  Carefree?  I miss that bitch!  She had her shit together!  She was smart, on fire, charismatic, and sexual energy poured from her…  It seeped into your pores without you even knowing.  

Alice found a way to escape life.  Albeit into the drug induced creation that is wonderland, but she found it…  Is that my answer?  Is my sanity trapped inside the world of my unwritten story?  Is my charasima tapped in the undeveloped characters?  Is that where my life has disappeared to?  Do I have to write the fucking stories in order to begin my story again?  Do I have to give them life to have mine???  

Fuck censorship.  The bibliophile dies when asked to look away from the book that seems to hold the space between awake and asleep.  The line is beyond blurred.  

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