Fight, fright, flight, feed, fuck.
My primal instincts take hold, and I am left in a state of autopilot. I don't even notice my surroundings. Failure has left its toll, yet I find myself marching forward, barely being shaken, so used to not getting what I want, I barely grasp the concept of disappointment. And I guess it wouldn't be fair to judge my choices without understanding my reasons, so let me explain. There was once a time I couldn't separate thoughts from my mind, then something happened, something I never shared, not even with you, and I suddenly found that the only way for me to survive is to write down anything, to write down everything - that way I could contain my fragile soul, and hold back the tears, Now here I am, writing for the sole sake of writing, without real agenda, and no true meaning. Without success or hope of stardom. Simply feeding my addiction, repeating and reliving, trying to sow back what was torn apart so many years ago.
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