The rain falls in undulating sheets, pouring off rooftops and slicing through the gale almost sideways as the boughs of trees bend and rattle in the storm-winds. The power is flickering off and on, and I’ll be sitting here in my cluttered little home office listening to tapes for as long as the electricity remains on. I’m tired, probably too tired to be writing coherently, but it doesn’t matter anyway. I feel a lingering sense of malaise creeping over me, piercing and gnawing slowly at my core. As bleak and dim as the omnipresent gloom outside is becoming, it’s hard not to feel this way.
I don’t know what I’m doing with my life presently, and it feels horrible to be so lost and afraid, beleaguered by confusion and sorrow, and frustrated burning ire. Some days I see more clearly, the rain subsides and the clouds lift; others, I’m enshrouded by vexing darkness, and so I malinger in this alien place in shambling ruin behind a facade of something human.
Drug abuse, needles, self-mutilation, attempted suicide are all mere symptoms of a greater disease that nobody ever really beats. These memories and this lifelong anguish are compounding exponentially, and my burden feels enormous; that, or I’ve grown pitiful and too weak to bear it, try though I may, crawling onward on my belly with a beast on my back.
But it’s times like these when I remember not to look up, I keep crawling for crawling’s sake.
I endure.
Towers of Rust 