Oh, youth pass over here, which is to say ‘Ia Lda Baoth'

I hear restless voices.

And I see images of flickering light and far away places.

For all my grandiose ideas and all of my eagerness I still wonder in moments like this if I'm just driving myself mad. Is this apartment a cell (in the monastic sense) or a cell (in the prison sense)? Or is it refuge comfort and hope? I just don't know some days.

Tonight it seems cold and alone. Tonight it doesn't seem any better than the cots of jails cells. I'm no more or less free tonight. Sure there are better books. Adult beverages. Music that comes out of speakers instead of headphones. Sure there is no one to fight with over TV. But at least in that there is connection.

Tonight the full living world seems very devoid of human contact.

And sometimes I still wonder if everything I wish and hope for makes me any better than a mad man. But tonight there will be no mercy. There is no happy ending to this world. No warm embrace to fall into. Just drink and words and sleep.

Precious sleep.

Don't take this the wrong way.

Not sad, just wandering for a bit. Sometimes the mind gets aimless and losses its direction. Sometimes the normal beacons fade, sometimes soft music and dark rum is called for. Sometimes it is good for the captain to be alone. Sometimes the crew wonders where they are going and if he has gone mad. Sometimes he wonders if he is gone mad.

This is me being Thomas. Poking my finger into the side of Christ. This is my moment of doubt, my sleeping mind in the garden, my denial three times. The rooster is crowing and I hang my head in shame, only to become the pillar of something greater.

The worst kind of doubt is self doubt.

I can't imagine that any of this makes any sense. I should be resting my head on a pillow. Or better on your chest. I should be slowly slinking into sleep. But instead I listen to dark country in Spanish, and tip back the bottle some more. Maybe freedom is my downfall. May be happiness is a crutch that we use to convince ourselves that we can make the world better. Maybe the joy I feel more often than not is an infection that I only think I can pass on to someone else, when in reality the infection is just in my mind.

The world doesn't want another prophet of woe and misery and doom.

And neither do I.

I just want a clean, new world. I just want to start all over again.

And that may mean more woe and misery and doom.

At least this way I know that I love the prophet. And that when it is to much I can hold her in my arms.

And tonight, though I'm not alone in that task, I'm tired of feeling like every breath is a fight. I tired of feeling like the world will never understand. I'm tired of the wilderness. Fuck you sleep for evading me.

File under Vice.