How is it that my body can sleep but my mind can’t? That I can lay there, eyes closed, not moving, lacking the energy to move and having no apprehension about the stillness and yet I’m awake inside and my mind just keeps going? I literally cannot outlast the endless supply of resources my fucking brain seems to be able to tap into to think continuously. 

It was a nice day when his father hung himself. It was a beautiful afternoon when he decided to leave the 17th floor from the outside. It was a temperate evening when she died in my arms and an equally temperate night that time a gun appeared. I cry over nice days too. They mean nothing to the human condition but everything to the human. Sometimes I let the paradoxes get under my skin when they’re met with disdain, but each day is going to be what it is, and I’m just here to live it. 

Time for a joint on a beautiful afternoon.