Thought.is

The time is 2:19 a.m. and I sit sullenly at my sad excuse for a desk, typing, backspacing, typing, backspacing. My vocabulary escapes me at this hour. All I want is to fall into purple-hazed dreams and maybe not feel what it feels like to want and want so desperately that it stings. I think back to old friends, acquaintances, lovers, enemies (if there is such a thing anymore) and I try to imagine what they think of me now.

We try to fill the void. Some write. Some reach for the pill bottle. Others run until their feet blister, work until dawn, or drink until they can’t see. We go to bed with strangers, and enter relationships with completely wrong people.