It is quite strange how my emotions sometimes take a step back and the stage is left to the whims of exhaustion. Nothing satisfies me, not the possibility of chasing a passionate dream, or keeping my head down and going with the flow, or even indulging in some incredible tales to while away the time. I’m event tired of dealing with people I have to live with, watching my words every moment for fear of offence, and frustrated at their blind faith in the system, in religion, in popular trends, and in their staunch refusal to open their eyes to the truth.
People try to coerce me into thinking that dying is this horrible, terrifying prospect. I have accepted my life as futile, considering I’ll die anyway, it’s only a question of when. Since that’s a question I can’t answer honestly, unless a quack informs me I have a fatal disease, I have resigned myself to take risks and follow my heart rather than make the rational choice to be a person that society approves. And if I die in the process, I’m okay with that.

I have given up trying to feel. Anything. Every moment feels forced, like I’m forcing myself to stay alive. Every night as I toss and turn like Charlie Brown, contemplating on deep spiritual issues that in truth, barely make any sense to me, I find myself wishing to fall asleep and never wake up. Interaction becomes a chore, and I end up speaking less and less every day. Silence is welcoming, and breaking that silence is pain.

But back to the matter on hand, I’m exhausted. With what I cannot say. But I simply cannot bring myself to perform an action other than chronicling my thoughts in words that I stamp on this digital page so I can make some sense out of it all. Simply staring at a blank wall would be both preferable and frustrating at the same time. I have often felt like this for a long time, and the only release I get is to turn over the reins of my consciousness to a psychedelic stimulant and turn my mind off to the concerns of the world.

You say drugs are bad for you and will kill you and will make you unsocial and is b—-the list goes on. But it is only the user who truly acknowledges the value. Drugs have given me a way to enjoy the finer things in life, to truly observe and understand the world I exist, to realize that this mindless chase after material comforts have left us wanting spiritual fulfillment, and that our lavish lifestyles are the envy of thousands who are yet to taste a drop of clean drinking water. Drugs are my life, my lover, and my executioner, not unlike the government and society that made the rest of you conform. It is only ever an idea, that people follow. Drugs are just a concept. If you think you are free, remember, you work your butts off five days a week just to satisfy that growling protest in your stomach. The system reserves your right to exist, decides what you’re going to be, and when you die. All those fools who say “I don’t do drugs” while shopping at Gucci, guzzling slurpies and inhaling KFC like it’s oxygen, take a good look at your disposition. Sex is a marketable drug, and we find ways to tease our sexual stimulus to pander to audiences so we fall head over heels to order ridiculously expensive products that we don’t really need. I have indulged in drugs to help calm my thoughts, and make me feel like I belong somewhere. Society is not an option because I’m alienated, neither is material comfort (no matter how bloody good they feel). My drugs and dreams are all that remain, and my endless pursuit continues until my time is up. Who knows, it might be before I can finish this sente

– The Chicken