Clear as Day.

In her state, everything felt so real. She saw things that wasn't there. Her body response to just her thoughts. If she imagines pain, she would feel it in her body. If she imagines pleasure, her body would shake and tremble, rocked by her orgasmic thoughts alone. It was out of control. She even wished for the euphoria to stop, as she feared she would not have the strength to face the crushing reality at the end of the trip; the reality that none of it was real. None of it mattered, really. She was too high to care.

She thought of everything. She figured everything out. She solved every puzzle that necessitate solving. She searched for god, she found god, and she became god. She understood everything. Everything was so clear to her. She wrote a book about them. A book about god, about life and death, about love and fucking. It was a really good book, but it was all in her head. She wished that she could record her thoughts somehow, but she knew it would be all in vain. Words could not describe the thoughts she had. It saddens her to know that she will die, carrying all the thoughts with her. Then, she thought of him. He is he only chance she has to share that book with. She would live out the book with him, instead.

It was a wonderful thought.

Escape.

She went back to her tiny room on 6th avenue. She adores that compact room of hers, even when it's ridiculously small and cramped - which is why her friends rarely came over. As a loner as she might like to be, a little company wouldn't hurt, once in a while, whenever she feels like it. The room had parquet floors that could be ridiculously cold on winter nights, and an out of place sink that she prefer not to use. Cleaning splashes of water on the floor and the sink itself is a hassle.

She sat on her bed, which is the only comfortable place to sit in that tiny room of hers. She gazed on her bass guitar, admiring the soft luster of the guitar's black body. She always thought that the guitar was the reincarnation of a very handsome, troubled young boy who accidentally killed himself due to drug overdose, but that's just her. She even gave "him" a name; Damien. As she laid herself on the bed, her thoughts kept going on and on and on. She hasn't been sleeping very well because of the stupid voices in her head.

She reached for a little piece of folded aluminium that she kept in her purse, unfold it, and placed the tiny piece of paper it contained onto her tongue. She had never experimented with psychedelics before, but she had heard enough about them. About an hour later, she was no longer in her tiny room on 6th avenue. She was in a very warm, happy place; where none of the bad things can reach her. It was exactly what she needed.

She saw light bleeding from the screen of her laptop. Her vision was decorated with pretty images of the microscope slides that she was working on a few days before. She laughed at herself for being such a nerd, unable to leave her experiments behind even when she's tripping out of her mind. But most importantly, she would think of him. Her "person". She could feel him close, as close as she wanted him to be. She could make it feel like he was breathing on her skin, a feeling that she was craving for very much. Every single fantasy she had was about him, and about being with him.

Numb Dumb.

Monday. It was 4 am and she was typing away on her laptop. She only had herself to blame for putting off everything to the last minute. Well, the last few hours to be precised. She's running out of time, but her head was clear as day. Printed and bounded, she gave the result of her (moderately) hard work a kiss, and carried it to the university to be submitted; an hour earlier before it's actually due.

She was pleased with how her day was going.

But that didn't last long, of course. She met with a colleague and was roped into getting something to eat. A simple celebration for an assignment that was submitted - rewarding ourselves with food for a job well-done; like dogs. She never knew why she had such condescending thoughts about humans, but she had them and loathe them.

She had to listen to the most boring, narcissistic conversation she had ever had with a girl who is still mentally 14, who has a serious case of brother-complex, and thinks that the whole world revolves around her. The level of faked enthusiasm she had to keep was well-over 9000. To the very least, the slice of coffee cake and strawberry milk shake were honest and sweet.

She got a text from her mother later that day. Her father was warded after he fainted at his workplace. She had never been good with bad news; not because she would breakdown or do anything extreme. She just didn't know how to react to bad news - always lacking emotion. She felt numb, but her thoughts were rampant.

"What if..?", "What if..?", "What if..?"

Tripping.

Death by Cookies.

Truth with respect to time. It might be the truth at one moment, but a lie the moment after.

Will I understand the whole meaning of "life" when I'm dead and buried in the ground?

Noooobody knows.

Death should be absolute. It is known for a fact that everybody should die. Will die. But that bastard Schrodinger messed that one up too, didn't he? But nah, essentially, we're all dead. It's just a matter of time. You're alive now, but you might be dead the next.

I ate 5 moldy chocolate-covered cookies just now. I might die in a few hours. I don't know. But actually, that is not what inspired me to write this overwhelming morbid post. Heck, if you've known me for a while now, you should have known that I'm always on the pessimistic side. Always talking about how better things are if we're all just die. Dead and gone. I'm pretty sure I sounded quite depressed and disturbed to those who follows me on twitter. Well I am. I know for a fact that I'm quite depressed, I just don't know why. There are a couple of things that may or may not contribute to my depression, but I think it's irrelevant. Why? Because it doesn't matter what happened in the past, because I don't think I'm emotionally affected by all those things anymore. In fact, what I'm feeling now is closer to absolute nothingness. I'm bored of life, really.

But do I want to die though? No. I don't really feel like I want to die yet because there's no guarantee that I'll feel better when I do. And I could still have some fun while I'm still alive and kicking. We're all going to die sooner or later so what's the rush?

Have I ever thought of killing myself before? Yes. No elaboration needed.

This whole thing about myself being unhappy with life, I think it works well with my masochistic nature. So I'm okay with things. But I can't change the way that I feel about things. They are what they are. The problem starts when other people assume that I have a problem with life. Well, those people can suck my imaginary cock, really. People just suckk. Life is hard enough as it is, why would they want to make it worse for me. I might be okay with life, but people, yeah, sometimes, they do make me feel like killing myself. For what it's worth, I think some medication would be awesome. Anything that could make me trip is awesome.

To sum it all up, I don't have a problem with life, I have the problem with the people. No people, no problem. In that sense, I guess dying is some sort of a solution because you could get away from all the annoying people.

Or you can be a social recluse like me.

Ghost.

The moment I choose not to listen to the voices in my head, is the moment when I become the most uncaring person in the world.

That moment has passed.

Good luck trying to reach me.