How do you know when you're going insane? Am I going insane?....No... I can't be going insane...unless I already am Insane that is. But then again it could be just that I'm driving myself insane with so much time and empty space. Nobody should have this much time alone to themselves. Time to think. Time to regret. Cry. No, not cry, crying is for the weak. Bored out of my fucking mind, maybe since I'm out of my mind, the insanity slowly sank in like I left my shell and now when I try to get back into it something cold and hot and new and angry has filled my space. It won't let me back in. It won't let me go back.

I wonder if I could live in peaceful co-existence with this 'insanity'. Thinking is the problem. And too much time. There's nothing to do. I turn off the light, lie down, and think. Letting my mind wander down roads. Every road. Fantasize, calculate, hope, whatever.

I wonder what my eyes look like in the dark. Do they glow? Can you see the thoughts racing back and forth across my brain? No. Just dull brown eyes. Sometimes red, but brown. But brown isn't such a bad color. The most perfect pair of eyes I've seen were brown. Light brown despite the fact they should be almost black. Thin graceful shape. So perfect. So far away. Best not to think about it. Let's think about something else.

I don't close my eyes when I think. I leave them open and let the images flitter across them. The room became hazy. Another program starting in the mind of Me, let's sit down and watch. What should it be this time. Will it be of him...should it?. Or maybe this time it'll be bloody. I'll kill everyone. Maybe. Maybe I'll do that anyway, without it being a dream. I just need the right amount of drama, pain, whatever to make me snap, it'll be dandy.

And there he is. I reach out and he pulls away. The anger, the defiance. He thinks it's his choice, that he can say 'no'. It's beyond that now. He doesn't seem to get that. Suddenly I'm so frustrated. I hate him. His stupidity. I hate everything he says and everything he has said. Everything he's done. Everything we've done. I'll twirl him around and connect my fist with his pretty mouth, breaking the skin and drawing blood for all the hate I feel and have ever felt for him and all that was more, and he stares at me even though I know I would never really hurt him.

Hands, my hands, reach out and slam him against the wall. Hard. So hard his eyes grow hazy and as I look into them (so prefect) I can see everything running through them, behind him. I'll crush my lips against his even if he resists and when he finally doesn't resist all my anger will fly away and I'll be left defeated and weak feeling as if a single breeze, or a single word, will bring me down. Crashing down.

I can taste his blood and somewhere in my mind I can actually remember what a kiss felt like. From him. And I hold on to it hard until I can't anymore and it slips away. And If I finally hear those words again falling, no more like calling, just for me, from his lips I'll die. My eyes will spill over with tears and I'll die right there. Or maybe I'll die when our lips meet and if he still feels it, he'll die to....

But why dwell on things that will Never. Ever. Come. True. And that my friends is the single most depressing thought. Or is it. What if he always resisted and instead I find bitter cold in the lovely eyes that make me die? Then I can bring up a blade to slit his wrists quietly and tell him that he's been ruined and maybe now the warm blood will bring him back after death like I couldn't. And maybe he'll cry out. Maybe he'll regret. Or maybe I would just let him walk away and feel my heart crushed and the blood run down its cracks from the inside because now he's gone. The words can't explain. I can't express the 'gone' that I feel. The loss. I can't. I just can't.

I see the people through the windows of my eyes and I break. And I see them in my head and I want to kill. Why should they be happy? How can they smile like that? Not when....when I...fuck it it's too hard to explain. I want to crush their throats and bruise their smiles. And I want to cry. But I would always choose the first. Always.

And if I walked over to my desk, and picked up that shining blade? It looks so tempting. In my deranged, depressed, perverted, sinful mind it seduces me. And if I was to take it? And press it against my skin? It's cold. Everything around me is dark and I turn on the light to see what I'm doing and the accusing eyes of pictures stare at me from every angle of my room. The ones I've lost. The ones who are here. Everyone I hate. And I love them at the same time. The pictures of everything I'll never have and can barley savor without breaking and losing control and through books I find them and what if I pressed that blade harder, just to see the affect? Just to see the affect....alright...but just to see....

Will it scratch the surface or bite deep this time? Will it make a fatal swoop upon my veins and take my blood of life...forever the curious mind, wondering, wondering, wondering....But will it? Not unless I make it so. Well what if I pressed down more, more, feel the bite, feel the teeth sinking in and then the sharp feeling when I pull it across. Just a little harder. A little deeper. Too much thinking. Too much time to think. Not enough space. Or too much space. And the blood. The little blood flowers that I usually find blossoming on the split open skin, where are they? Now all I see is a river. It's drowned the flowers. And it will drown me.

Maybe it will drown my sorrow. Or my heart. Maybe it will just drown me and I'll still feel the rest. Or I won't feel anything. I can lower my lips to the river and drink. But as it stains my lips it's a sour taste, unfamiliar. Not the sweet salty metallic taste. A sour Gaul rushing from my veins. The taste of death maybe? Is that a hopeful maybe? Or a fearful one...Did I press down too hard....did I not press down hard enough?

My insides are raging like fire and suddenly I feel hot, a wave of heat sweeps over me unexpectedly and again and again. Little beads of sweat, delicate that form on my brow. There's no mirror in this place but I can see myself. I'll fall to the floor. Or I'll fall to the wall. Or I'll fall to the heavens or to other places. But I'll fall. I'm falling. And I see it all. And now I don't. And it's gone. And I wonder somewhere, when I fall, will there be someone there to catch me...