Infiltration

I have not written anything remotely artistic or substantial in a rather long time. The creative process has been hampered by the constant fatigue I feel, from working too many hours, and burning the candle at both ends. That, coupled with the overall general dissatisfaction I experience on a daily basis, in regards to relationships, personal issues, and the constant need to abuse myself, with long periods of deep, psychological introspection, have all taken their toll. This prolonged form of suicide, is almost equilivent to purgatory. I am not living. Merely "existing". Drained of will, and lobotomized of hope, I now cling to the fleeting and tawdry things life has to offer. Which is the ultimate irony, as these are things I cared little of nothing for previously. I feel myself disengaging from the sentient world more and more. As it has little to offer me, other than more of what I've already experienced. Which more often than not, is unanswered questions, and pain.

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