Question Time

What is it that makes you better than me? What is it that makes me think it makes you better than me? What is it in human nature that refuses to change an ideal so flawed and improbable even in the face of clear facts? What is it that pulls me to self inflicted damage? How brilliant and magical is it, that I go willingly?

What is it that won’t let me live and work to my fullest?

New Year. Huh.

Yeah, this whole new year’s resolution thing is so contrived. Our greatest enemy, as a species, is self-control, or, more specifically, lack thereof. My sample group for this hypothesis consists primarily of my bathroom mirror and my conscience, both blurry as a result of the distractions of self-pity and social media. With crucial examinations coming up, I have found myself grossly underprepared and would rather just get a full night’s sleep for once.

Thrice a day, I move toward my books with renewed resolve and am either asleep or online within seconds thereafter.I’ve watched endless inspiring and motivational ted taalks that tell me I’ve got what it takes to make it, save one big thing: Focus(partially, at least.) I’m easily distraacted when I’m doing something I’d rather not and find myself rather lacking in self-control.


I hope I find some Jedi scripture or something that well help me use the arsenal of resources that my parents’ hard work and lady luck have put before me. If there’s anyone out there who sees this before the 11th of january 2018 and is in possession aforementioned scriptures, kindly contact me.

Lord, give me strength




If this was easy, I’d take you for granted and treat you with the same detached arrogance everyone else seems to be getting. 

If this was easy, I wouldn’t have learned to see the value in the little things 

The truth is, though, I hate it. 

I hate being so far away and still so close, I hate seeing how easy it is for other people, I hate that we can’t do the things we’d love if it wasn’t for this distance. 

Yeah, we’ve got phones and all that crap, but do they really work?

Fuck it. I don’t even care that you might hate me tomorrow and forget my name next year. I do care that literally prison inmates get to see people more often than I get to see you 

Dear fucking diary, reality is hitting me in the face like a grammatical error in a blog post, and I don’t know what to do about it. Every time I will myself away from my gluttony and sloth, I find myself thrown into this game of blackjack where the odds are stacked against me, and the dealer’s laughing his ass of, because he is me, and I can’t fathom my failure, at it’s pinnacle, every time, it just gets higher. 

I have a dream that is so tangible, so real and so close, slipping for a collection of bad days I refuse to recover from. This is noisy and flashy

I’m going to sleep, it’s the only real peace I find these days 


I see colors that feel as deeply as the time that surrounds every part of love in stability and uncertainty 

The headache flows like mud in the monsoon with the smell and the haze as the cars go by with stale cigarettes and greasy food

Wrinkled skin wrinkles up into a frown that disproves everything we once said but then didn’t 

Shut this down, but keep it running two whole days behind the ocean in motion as questions pop up like a brand new toaster 

Friends are all you need to fulfill what you have in the dogs world

Dear fucking diary, no, everything isn’t alright
I bad a dream, but I’m using sight
I learned to understate mental conditions
From my mum and haven’t recovered since
Yes I get to complain, here, if nowhere else
School’s taking me through six different hells
And they all look better than what tomorrow might bring
I can’t read, I can’t dance, In can’t sing
I feel like a bird with no wings