Supermassive Blackhole

Oh, I preordered Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows at Thomson Plaza Popular, so if any of you preordered there, I'll be in the queue at 7am that day.

And I'm already worrying about wasting it all when I'm not going to be able to muster the strength to read a full-length novel. Is it age, or something more sinister? I can't bring myself to complete a novel cover to cover the past few months or so. I just don't seem to be able to focus that well anymore. Sure, I had pushed myself to read Jurassic Park a couple of weeks ago, but boy, that was painful, and the words sorta just floated above my head. I didn't really enjoy it.

Focus, KC, focus. Don't let life pass you without you realising.

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I have so much to say, but so little words I can use to express it. Where do I even begin?

The futility of life itself?

The way the prospects of reality itself all added up and jackknifed unto itself last night?

But not all's lost. There's some things that still do matter, no matter what. It feels embarrassing though, clinging onto a single life line, when everyone else's strong enough to move along by their own steam.

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On this very day, I brought my Sony MP3 player to the repair centre as the battery capacity was slowly ebbing away. And on today, I had realised that my brother had bought a very similar Sony MP3 that would probably share the same problem in future. Oh dammit.

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The prospects of school going full tilt tomorrow's utterly scary. I'd do anything to have an excuse to avoid it. Maybe if I get hit by a truck and lay in a coma for a few weeks it'd be nice. Or if I end up in a mad rampage and get locked up. But reality is more mundane, and probably, I'd have to meekly trot to school, endure the pain, take it like a man.

And I don't know if I can do it.

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Heck, unless some sort of a revelation/threat/etc happens, I'm not going to the appointment tomorrow. It's just too hard to tell the truth, that I'm really in a shitty state, and that throwing myself in front of a raging diesel truck isn't totally off the cards. And as for the pills, well, they were obviously misused.

It's easier to hide. And hey, maybe it's all a sham I've so carefully constructed for myself. Maybe I'm just faking it all for the attention. I don't deserve any of the help that the truly deserving ought to be getting.

Unless you use force and drag me there. I'd be kicking and screaming, but it's prolly good for me and I might just end up being eternally grateful for that. I dunno.

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I'm polluting the very ground that I trod on, the air that I breathe; the objects that I look at, the people that I encounter, with a gloom that's so vile and toxic, I wish I had never existed.