Cogs In The Machine.

i sit,
in the morning, i wake up,
take in my surroundings,
push my aching body at a 90 degree angle,
and i sit.

i've been quite reflective these past 150 hours.
my brain is a machine, but for these last 7 days,
some cog in the machine has been defective.
overly-exerted.
and overly-exhausted.

i'm hardly ever in the position where i find myself lost.
or confused about what i need to do.
being back in one of the biggest places again,
feels foreign, just like the first day.

drowning myself in music will not help.
repeating and reiterating my problems will not help.
but that's the funny thing.
i want to help.
that's what i do.
that's my job.

i feel like i understand the little girl with the hip problems who says,
"don't you hate it when it's out of your control? that you tried your hardest but it wasn't enough?"

i'm trying my hardest.
i'm fucking trying to be my own person and "live my own life", and focus on the things that matter.
but the things that "aren't supposed to matter", do.
the machine is defective.
i'm defected.
because the things that should matter to me don't.
and the things that do,
are out of my control.

so, in order to keep the wheels turning,
the engine on,
and the electricity currently running,
i sit.
i look, pause, and look again.

i'm reminded everywhere even where there is no sign.
and the more i try, the more there is.
the more i pretend,
the more empty and hollow it gets inside my head.

and i promised myself to never empty again.

the only thing that helps,
is writing.
and the more i feel that way, the happier i get.
because out of all of this,
all the bullshit and wondering and hoping and admitting and repeating,
all of this fucked up feelings instead my head,
at least my passion is getting a kick out of it.
at least i realize more what i'm meant to do.

i'm a writer, man.
and you know, a writer's responsibility is to be miserable, right?

dear god, i hope not.

i hope.