Kick and scream all you want. No one will hear you. Get back to work.

If you're still a regular reader of my log, you'll have noticed the ever decreasing frequency of my entries. I feel the need to comment on this, for I feel my passion for writing is waning; what's worse is that I don't seem to care all that much. Perhaps I've finally had it with this thing called "life", although I hardly consider myself to be alive, given the painfully bland routine existence I lead. This penal colony that is our conformist society, after many years, has broken down this old soul.

There was a time when I would read a news story and proceed to spew forth a lengthy diatribe on the subject matter at hand, but no more. I'm sick to death of the news, of television in general, yet I can't seem to pull anyone away from it. I find myself alone with it, as it is my only companion during these lonely evenings - it's also fantastic for lulling my active brain to sleep.

Ah, sleep: the primary purveyor of joy in my life, vanquisher of my physical ailments, my job, my worry. I want to smash my alarm clock each morning for reminding me of yet another day at the salt mines. I'm tempted to call in sick most days, but what for? No one would understand; they're too busy worrying about their kingdoms. Besides, what else would I do with my time? I can't sleep my life away, can I? Though I almost wish I could, for I see little incentive to remain awake, although who is to say any of us are "awake"?

My mind is active with a million and one thoughts swirling within it at any given moment. I have a million things to say, but I don't know how to say them. I want to scream a million things at once, but somehow, I feel I can do no such thing, for I am afraid no one will understand, or, worse, no one will listen, so I keep my fool mouth shut. I wish I felt inspired to write more, but I'm afraid I'm too busy wasting away at the shit pump.

I do not intend this to be a plea for pity. I need none. It does neither of us any good. I don't know what I want out of this. Any passion I have for life is fading. Any beauty in this world is far beyond my grasp, if not destroyed altogether. I feel imprisoned by my existence, contemplating the choice between waiting for my parole or plotting my escape. I would rather view life differently, but I'm unsure if, at this point, it's possible.