Reality is bullshit.
Political science... my former academic career... left me devoid of optimism. The army drained me of my rebellion. The Church mind-fucked me.
Is this my lashing-out?
Against God? Against the Church? Against the Government? Against Academia? Against Sinn Fein? All the institutions that I have called home... what am I outside their walls?
Fucked.
I don't have a purpose but existence. The idea that there might not be any reason for existence is so boring... but it feels like that's where I'm heading.
As much as I try to run from apathy - no one wants to buy this fucking novel. This novel is all that I am right now. This novel is me. I am this novel.
It'll suck if it's shit.
My hernia's come back.
It's dark out. Getting warmer. Still cold.
I belong in the night. But I can't be there right now.
The night is when I write. But as I've mentioned - it's hard to find the fucking time.
Fuck. That's enough. Go to bed.
Follow
