i'm high as fuck. that's what italics means if you haven't figured it out yet.
since my last entry, my birthday has come and gone. i always get sick of myself around this time; i think a lot of people do. you have a reason, a legitimate one, to compare yourself to your year-ago self, to other people your age, to where you thought you'd be. and so i have a reason, a legitimate one, to hate myself.
this isn't where i want to be. this is exactly where i never wanted to be. i live in a dark room, with multiple drug problems and a steadily waning outside life. every day i become a worse version of myself. i can't achieve what i want not because it just isn't happening, but because i lack the chance to even try. and with the goddamn pandemic, my ever-slow progress has pretty much shit the bed.
i could do great things if i had the opportunity. i could be a great friend. a great partner. i could make my parents proud. i could read and write and play and sing and run and fuck and laugh. i could live incredible moments, things i'd never forget.
but i barely remember the last 7 years.
i hate the people around me who live good lives. i don't want to be that way. i hate my friends. what a monstrous person i am. a pathetic, disgusting thing. i know people who are happy. i envy and hate them. i know people who are moving. and i'm so goddamn bored i'm jealous of it.
i'm not who i want to be. i fail myself at every turn. i invest in understanding my pain and then living in it. i waste my writing on self-flagellation. the only music i make is purposefully discordant and wrong. what am i doing to myself? building myself a brazen bull? popping my eye out of my skull on the tip of a knife? laying on the ground until the grass overtakes me?
i've lived the same day thousands of times. tomorrow will be the same. and the day after that. and next month, too. next year. the haze that i am will envelop more of my time, shroud it in darkness, until, one day,