It is quite fascinating how deep some of the scribbles appear. They carve through the notebooks with nothing but ink and will.

To think I was only 15 when I contemplated the meaning of life. To think I was 20 when I decided I didn’t care.

It is quite fascinating. Much too fascinating for the barren desert that has settled in my mind.

Where had all the water flown to? Where had the grass migrated? When did I stop thinking?

For better or worse I am more desperate now.

I am more organized. I am more occupied. And yet I am more strained and held behind.

The bare glimpse of trust in myself is all I have:

The ramblings of a medicated madman,

The ramblings of a vacant husk,

The ramblings of a severed hand,

To stop is to give up and to move on is to give in.

All I need to do is balance along the cracks in my head.