I know it’s late, but insomnia is a demon that I can’t resist flirting with. Her hickeys line the bottom of my eyes —she’s really quite possessive.

They say I’m losing my grip, but then again, maybe I never really had one. What was once the organized chaos of my mind is now just chaos, and my clouded thoughts have forgotten what sun feels like.

Weekends just don’t suffice anymore. Every second of every day is dread.

Purpose, my god, what is the purpose. Am I to endure this crucifixion only to receive a 9 to 5 job, a husband, and children?

My friends refuse to understand. My beautiful, porcelain friends. They’re content to be marionettes, but I’ve hacked my strings off. I may get to control myself, but at what cost? Ignorance must truly be bliss because understanding is hell.

Maybe I’m dramatic.

Maybe I’m misguided.

Maybe I’m angsty.

In the end it’s all the same cliché: When the sun comes up tomorrow we’ll forget all about the murmurs of the night. We’ll brush our teeth, put on our suits, and fall back into the same rat race.

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