Pangs of being a writer
How many years has it been. I have lost the count of time. I hate the world. I hate being myself. I want to hit upon something after tumbling down this endless gorge. I want to bleed out all thats inside. I do not have any craving for life and I hate death even more. They come and appreciate but they do not know of the cancer of thoughts that inflicts me. Losers all. Fakers all. I love this cancer for it has stuck to me even when life and death backstabbed. There are circles in my head. I end up where I start. Yet I am eternal. No beginning, no end. I want to see red in this perpetual darkness. The red blood of my own thoughts. The thoughts that I hate like I love them.