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I want out. I want out of this maze of self-destruction. I want out of this system. It hurts me.

I want to be a kid. I want to sleep on the grass. I want to look at the clouds again. I used to love the clouds when I was a kid. I used to love imagining.

I was an average student because, in class, I was too busy daydreaming and scribbling.

I loved my mind back then. Before it was broken and turned on me, my mind was my best friend. I was lonely. It kept me company. It told me amazing stories. It made me notice everything.

Then my father took a hammer to it. He was a carpenter. He had a good swing. He shattered my mind with one strong shot. Then he shit on the pieces.

This is how live at thirty-seven: with a broken mind – a child’s mind – littered with decades old feces. Is it any wonder that I’m dying? Is it any wonder your world is eating me?

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