934216

I just heard the train whistle in the distance, five times now--no--six, seven, eight. Train whistles used to be so calming to me, the one and only thing that could keep me balanced on the off days.

Eight times now, and it's not working. I feel nothing. I feel empty, directionless. Sometimes I feel that the only god there is exists to play tricks on me, to oppress my will, testing to see when I will break. I want to violently oppose this force by going about and punching in the face whoever I feel is holding me back in life.

However, that would be self-defeating, so instead, I started to write a short story about a person in a similar situation as I am, or, rather, with similar desires to the ones I just described. This creative and analytical outlet should keep me from shoving a knife in my roommate's belly and thus standing trial for attempted murder. I should get back to it. I've got two characters right now, and their talking up a storm. Maybe I'll even finish the story this time, or maybe I'll black out and wake up with penmarks on my face. At this point, it could go either way.

Once again, I'm going to promise myself to make better use of tommorrow.