This life is killing me.

Again. God damn it. I fell of the wagon. Went too far. Too extreme. Too many things at once. I thought I was bullet proof. But the only proof I got is that I have a world of madness under the iceberg. 

But I am still alive. I slept like 2 hours and then played music all night. Drank coffee. Watched porn. It’s like someone else took control and was living through my songs and my whole being. 

No matter what I do, I still feel like shit most of the time. When I’m not high. When I’m chasing the scream. Longing for that lullaby. Looking for someone in my reflection. Someone I just cannot seem to find. 

I need that fix. The urge takes over. Usually it begins with sex (release) and then it unwinds from there into all my other vices. Luckily I don’t use any drugs. I can’t afford them financially. But if I was rich and famous? Maybe I would, to stay alive. 

I sympathise with the fuck up rock stars who killed themselves or who hide away from everyone to NOT kill themselves. Some have learned to handle that kind of bullshit and somehow keep head above water. 

I know my writing is heavily focused one me. I am isolated. I don’t feel connected to anyone particularly. I don’t miss anyone. There are not many people I enjoy being around. 

There are open loops in my life. Loose ends. Projects I must finish. Obviously just pretending things don’t exist doesn’t work. 

This writing process is about simplifying my life and minds. About essentialising my character down to the core. I thought I was inhabiting a new character. Doesn’t work like that. You can change your name. You can run away. 

But you can’t hide.