I can't admit to myself how I feel. I suppose this is reasonable because I have no fucking clue if I'm feeling anything at all, I mean, emotions course through my being and across the mental planes but it's like osmosis of the soul. There's no energy returned, nothing penetrates truly. After so long(in the terms of a twenty one year old boy-man) its seems catharsis is in order.

Properly though, thus fugue status can be a release. I am free in a way that I have never been and I am thoroughly fucking terrified. I see and hear and feel myself. I am not in there though. As though my active "soul" has skipped off to Chincoteague for a life of parasailing and leisurely architecture and the actual being of William plods and bulls through the day to day like Truman. No idea that his life is just a series of ratings. Writing conveys a sense of future to me though. I will be able to reread these thoughts I put to the world and can perhaps allow me to one day review my life with laughter. I want to laugh without hollow echoes throughout my head. I want to enjoy my cigarettes. I want to dream as if it is exciting to do so still. I want that fucking rabbit out of my room. HAHAHAHA my fucking "room." A curtained off section of unfinished basement is a suburban housing project. I don't even know where this vitriolic spew comes from, I have nothing to bitch about right now. Face book and family guy and free pizza and getting paid for it.

I suppose the main thing is that nowadays I look into the mirror and I see a face not made by god.