I'm sitting on my bed, sick to my stomach and soul for the fourth time in three weeks, listening to nothing but the shrill sound of my mother giving the uncooperative family vacuum a sound tongue-lashing. I have no weekend plans for the first time in over a month, but it doesn't relieve me; keeping busy has been the only thing keeping me sane. Now that I've been left to my own devices, I'm not entirely sure I can trust myself; I am each day more and more tempted by the possibility of cutting free the last bits of flowing warmth, my only resistance in public life.

I will not say I am lost; certainly, I have a very good idea of where I am and what surrounds me. Nor will I say that I am manic or completely suicidal. It is more of a general feeling of exhaustion; sometimes, the mere idea of getting out of bed in the morning makes me want to sleep for twelve more hours. I feel faded, worn-out. My reasons are many and varied, though none rouse me as they should; family crises cropping up, academic flounderings, medical problems, and my mighty absconder of a former supposed 'best' friend...I know something is wrong that I feel nothing, especially at the last.

I think it would be nice to wake up from this entire life and find it was just a nightmare or spectacular hallucination. I often feel that I am being pulled away in layers and have no means of stopping it, each aspect of me dissected and ripped to shreds.


"One here, one there...like an onion, such a vile thing!"


For all my squirming, the sense of slowly being unfurled and exposed never ceases.


My skin is becoming translucent, and I am withering, wasting away. My laughter leaves a quinine taste in my mouth and my dreams all look and taste and feel as if I'm floating in formaldehyde. I enjoy every second only because of the peaceful misconception that this must be slow death.