It's 2:00 am in the morning, and I cannot find sleep. Instead, I find an all consuming rage and a hint of self loathing.
There are some who quite enjoy this state. These are also those people who constantly complain all the time. I am not one of those people.
I am also not a perfectionist. I'd like to think I try, but that might come off as a lie.
What I would really like is the life of a snail. Sometimes I liken myself to one. And I even make up for the lack of shell by constructing an imaginary one all around myself. I retract in this shell quite often. No one else is allowed in.
Routine sickens me. I find no joy in the usual. Is life really the same thing over and over again? Since when did we get stuck in this infinite loop of sorrow and misery?
I also hate when people have very utopian ideas about reality. Such people romanticize even the mundane. That, to me, is one of the most difficult things to accept.
What is to become of me? Where am I going? Am I even going anywhere?
Questions. Questions. Questions. Instead of finding the answers, sleep finds me.