I wrote this at 4 in the morning two nights ago after not being able to sleep and biting the pillow from this endless, nauseating pain I feel in all my body at certain points of my life.

I'm an unusally emotional and simulateanously unemotional[/i] individual and I write and draw and sometimes make music and movies to let-out some of my demons. I know heartbreak, depression, self-destruction and no confidence very well and I seem to be a magnet for people with emotional baggage. I write on my bedroom wall and on tables and on my hand and legs when there's no paper and I've filled-up something like ten notebooks with emotion, and I've written two novels.

This is just something I wrote without thinking so that I could be comfortable enough to go to sleep. I'll post more if anyone likes them enough.

Seeing that I'm writing from the heart and soul of a corporate-damaged, society-poisoned punk enthusiast who likes two breakfasts and the smell of rusty iron, pukes out his guts from depression every night and smokes non-existant cigarettes to let out exhaustion, this should make sense.

We all go through phases and some phases leave their residue. We all get beaten down, picked-up, beaten-down again and some of us manage to escape this cycle of abuse unscathed, while some just leave with breaks in their soul and their confidence at a low, and some of us fall as children into the cracks and crawl-out as psycopathic serial killers ala Ed Kemper. And at some point we all do the same to someone else.

I've been in a phase for far too long where dream and reality have mashed into one, I can't sleep before four in the morning and I can't wake up before noon. I've used this to shove off reality, to stay out of touch with everyone I know except through typing words on the internet, and at this point of my life I'm detached even from myself, if there is such a thing anymore, and my whole existence depends on journeying through junkie-filled hallways with distorted, Morello-ed guitar playing with a scent and gobbling-up half-baked Dickensian philosophy from people who live in the same society as those who created Operation Freakout and the Gulf War. I wade through muck and mud everyday and there isn't the smell of dampness to make me want to go on.

I watch little children laugh and jump around and I realise the imminent danger of a pedophile just standing around the corner, waiting for them so that he could rape them raw. I watch my rock idols play and see the passion dead, watch my football teams play but only for the millions they crave, I think about alien control and whether people have decided to kill God so that we can all fuck and be happy. Taking a shit on stage has become art and being happy without compromising individuality's elusive; punk is dead and so's anything worth achieving.

This is a world where even the beauty of dying has been blown, where masks top the best-seller lists no one profits from and I want to thank you all. I feel a pain in my stomach and I close my eyes to see the baby that'll crawl out of my mouth and walk around like a lost blind-man without a cane.

Thanks for the cough drops.

Thanks. YEAH go punk/underground music! I blame Nirvana for getting me into that.

Reading this now it makes little sense to me but I can tell my state of mind at the time. Does this happen to anyone else? Like, you can't go to sleep until you write?

Wow, introspective with a hint of honesty. I officially love your philosophy. However, I've seen and heard it all before. I could always sense what a punk enthusiast is going to rant about for some strange reason. (I blame music for that).