Burroughs

I've got that aching, nagging sensation where I can't rest or my bones will sizzle under a fire that I've started and it won't ever stop until every twig is nothing but ash. I want to live in this dawn colored world where everything is soft and fuzzy like when you just wake up, barely conscious, not a thought besides that wild blinking confusion as the sun streams under the slits in the dusty blinds.

Wouldn't it be great to be caught in that dreamlike euphoria for ever and ever? Wouldn't it be simpering and sweet to walk through a bright and cold museum from end to end every morning and every night. God I can't take these red lit interiors with nothing but noise and people who aren't even alive anymore they're just shadows and it must be so good, so great, to be there with the sounds and sustenance and the people, the people are so very dead but they're quite interesting aren't they? You must be so lucky to be submerged in this beatnik hell, huffing unfiltered cigarette smoke and talking meters of poetry and meters for cars and metric meters and all other matters of meters. It must be so easy to get up and do it over and over again, as if you didn't leave a part of yourself in that over stuffed couch. 

When am I supposed to start enjoying myself, is it now, have I missed it, did it sail over my head as I lazed on that cold stone bench and continually pricked my fingers on the thorns by petting each and every rose, yellow, pink, red, red, gold? 

Maybe I just need a break, maybe I just need nothing, but when all I have is nothing I go so crazy, like I'm missing out on something. I just need the right amount of something and the right amount of nothing. 

I keep these lists of things yet to do and just as quickly as I cross something off I write something new and all I've ever really wanted was a blank list. Oh why do I do this to myself why can't I just say enough's enough why must I keep killing myself; why won't I be satisfied until every cell in my body is murdered and replaced by a new, naive one?

I've got these stories in my head and that's all I've ever really had. I have them to keep me company, to keep me nourished, to keep me forging ahead. Some days I'm so anxious because my thoughts are ten years ahead of the rest of me. Oh please give yourself a chance. Nothing happens immediately, even oblivion takes several million years. No one will forget about you if you take one little break. Hell, they already have, but that's a problem for another day. Go to sleep now.