Sonzaban says

Hm.

I wanted to be an artist and a writer I think. A long while ago. I wanted to draw and I wanted to write. I wanted to be able to express myself. My mother told me no. So I didn’t become an artist and all I write is sad little tradgedies that I call my life. I wish I was an artist and a happy writer.

It smells like mold. Like week old food, half eaten - like last night's puke and a mix of alcohol and whatever I found to mix it with last. Depression is a bed full of items, used cutlery and clothes I don't remember how many times I've worn in the past month without washing. I'm tired, and hit and I can feel the folds of my stomach too much and at the corner of my eyes There are things that move and disappear. I don't want to call them for what they might be. I feel so heavy. I hate feeling this heavy. There is too much flesh involved with this body. I feel too full but too hungry. Every time I move I am reminded of how I spill over, how much space I take. I wish I could cut myself open. It's so hot. Maybe I'm melting. I'm tired. I'm ugly. Fuck I want this to end.

I am filled with tiny little holes. Bitten in all places of my body. My neck. My arms. My stomach. My back. My ass. The inside of my thigh. My feet. I am filled with tiny holes that feed tiny little insects who came into being by my filth. In the dead of night they feast on my blood and I awaken with more little holes. All that's left is a pulsing left behind and I can't help it. I reach and twist and scratch and from these tiny little holes I create wounds and scars and I tear at the skin to get to the pulse beneath with no gratification but pain and more pain and more little holes in the next light of day. I am filled with tiny little holes.

I've been sick all day and I can't feel my face.

Throwback to a couple of years ago when I had no job.

Here for the me of yesterday because holy crap I'm still unbelievably shocked at how happy I was?

21/02/2016