There’s a hair on my computer screen; my brand new laptop. A playstation 3 to my right, a big TV, a desktop computer, two empty cups of coffee past, a cell phone with a new number waiting, a Seinfeld DVD box set, a blood red Zippo lighter, one pack of Kent #6, one pack of Kent #9, a novel by good ol’ Chuck describing a plane crash, the Concise History of the World book in which they could only describe Muslims as people who followed some dude who said that we can marry more than once; wires, many, many wires… this is my space. And in all the material entertainment I could provide myself, all the toys, all the money, new clothes… I fail to recognize my dimensional presence. I cannot hear my body breathe or feel the air welcomed by my lungs. The ability to touch, that sensual experience can only be felt now by my digits tapping on these black keys, playing the only beat that I want to hear amidst this newly adopted silence that I have come to hate. This quietness is different from the one I had before.

And they keep tapping nonstop. They have been for the past few weeks. I have a zillion unpublished words. My Documents is filled like a spam folder. Today I finally realized why I have been writing too much. Blogging no longer does it for me. I lost it. I can’t vent anymore.

Even they; they no longer speak to me. It’s been awfully quiet around here. It’s awfully dark I cannot see my own hands and I fail to recognize my own voice amidst all the screeching in my head. It’s too dark inside I do not feel my soul anymore. I’ve become a stranger with a familiar face to myself. I would have figured it’d be more peaceful, but the war rampaging in my head serves its unknown purpose far too well. But the fact remains, when it’s in your head, you can’t really hide from it. You can’t sleep. You can’t work. It’s not a limb that you can just amputate. All that’s left is for you to get down on your knees and pray, pray, and pray; for God to show mercy, for your sleep to be peaceful, for your heart to mend, for your brain to forget, for your soul to freeze, for the world to be fucking different…

I no longer feel like sharing because, the truth is, I never shared. It was always about me. It was always about me trying so hard to suck it all out on a fucking page. I never wrote to socialize, never sought public applause. All I have is a counter that lets me know that there are others like me.

Are there? Sometimes I wonder if it’s just me who’s “special”.

I no longer wish to express.

I no longer feel relieved when I write. I always felt that my blog is a living thing, with its own breathing lungs, its own stiff muscles, its own personality, its own borne cross; my very own pet, my dominant master; my ever amazing needle. But this… entity has lost its purpose. Maybe I’ll come back one day, read my posts like it’s the first time and wonder like I always do. I hope I never do.

All I know is that it is time for me to focus now, to get back on my feet, to get back on my throne, to reach out and touch my glory, to jumpstart my ego, to burn my secrets and rise from amidst the smoke; lie to myself to be happy. Breathe.

Look away.

Look away as I disappear.