It's odd, feeling so many drugs flowing through my system. It's almost as if I can feel each individually, in different colors, different momentums of cold serenity. Life is constant haze in which I can't quite remember being in this world and can't seem to forget the next. Perhaps I'm fading away... or perhaps I'm strengthening into somewhere that I belong. It seems as if there's a fog over me, a mist that shadows my eyes as I'm led away blindly through slush and pain into a place where I feel nothing... but peace.
I feel at peace.
And yet in so ... much.... pain.
It seems that I get rave reviews for putting down how I feel; as if it's something special to set down words and throw out emotions like bloody trash. I'm not sure what the appeal to my words are; what it is that makes them so special.
I'm glad someone reads it.
I accidentally ripped the cut open, twice; it's deep, deep enough for me to feel cold. It's nice to look at it, because I know it's the last... I hope it's the last. Promises are not meant for one such as me.
But then again... who would I make the promises to?