Things are going fast, and I only wish I knew where.

If I could help you any way, there's no sorry in it.

Well, they say you can pick your poison. You really don't know it's poison though, it could always be gatorade or somehting. You think it will replenish your electrolytes- and there you go, you end up with your cells bursting from osimosis, trying to even things out. It's hot in here. And I'm tired. And Jeff Lynne seems to have an obsession with pudding. And it's a real space oddity. The times of today, that is. Sometimes you feel like breaking down, but then fill with relief because it is a feeling. You know you can feel compassion. But it feels like it's tearing you apart. But that's nothing compared to who else. People have real problems. Dramatic stuff. Everyone around you is under pressure, while you just feel the weight of the world on your shoulders. You don't give a Just*n Beib*r about your own problems. You just wish you had more wisdom, more good pieces of advice instead of all your talented rubbish that seems to drip out your fingernails like a boastful fine wine, and even then things sometimes get dried up. And because the sun excapes it's thin boundaries, you start to forget yourself, who you really were in your peak. It all turns to a vat of melancholia, like the whey that is left after you gather all your precious curds. You really want to dump it down the sink- it stinks like diluted urine- but it's too hot from boiling. The only way to do that then would be to permanently damage your hands- preventing you from enjoying any kind of food. It would be over, but the people around you... It gets too tempting. To the point where you lock your self in your room, turn out your lights, and place your hands around your neck. You squeeze. Harder and harder and harder. You squeeze while you watch your face in the mirror turn red to purple, the pressure gathering in your nose until the tears run down your face. Then you let go. Why did you let go? You have no idea. You were a coward. Or was it hope? Hope in the face of the hopeless? You break down. You hate yourself even more. Careless, what were you going to do? You'd hate for anyone to find your body. You wish you could just disapear and accend into the heavens. But you didn't do enough- it wasn't your time.
It stopped striking you for a while, but every once in a while it wasn't enough- you'd break down again. And after that- you wouldn't understand. But it's not about that. No, those times are the times of self pity. You hate yourself instead of loving the world. It's you love of the world, though, that really breaks you. It leaves you with that bittersweetness in the back of your mouth. No- it's like enjoying a bowl of cereal. You satisfy your hunger- the sweet bits of corn or wheat or grain or who knows what it is, taste so sweet on your tounge. You swallow the milk and proceed out the door. But afterwards, the milk creates that weird taste, that really bad taste, you get after drinking milk. The taste accumulates in the back of  your throat and soon fades. But is that true? It's really a cycle, it ain't linear, or else I would be the happiest person in the world. No- the world would be better. They would all be happy. I'd like that. I'd really like that. If people stopped hurting- Really understood. Or at least tried, listened to sorrows. Tried listening to sorry, never reacted with hate or violence. If everybody learned to forgive, then stopped acting for the need of forgiveness. I never remotely understood the hate for any person, aside from my self. Never have. Hopefully never will.