And so the despair returns..

It's been a tough month. My skin has dried out with the end of my happiness, perhaps it is time I shed my skin.

Options and patience too run dry so quickly that I feel like the only thing to do is run away. Runaway and live an alternate reality. Starve of the fat and live gobbling hungrily at scraps and painting in an empty room with a covered floor.

Anything to escape the padded walls, silent and irritating as I run against them only to bounce off without sound, without satisfaction. Scrambling up the grip less pillows, like a cat declawed, unable to bring on even the slight satisfaction of ripping them open violently to release a flow of unruly feathers and leave gaping gashes forever in the fabric. But the walls are indestructible here.

The words spoken in the halls mean nothing. Nothingness is what I feel. And when the voices are heard they echo momentarily and then are quickly fade away as I pass. Absorbed by the speed of day to day and the cushioned walls.

The doors in the room are slammed closed by my economics professor like heavy, automatic locking doors in a prison. Once released at two thirty from my misery I walk home in a trace of confusion an dread. I return home weary with feelings of worthlessness and stupidity. Again desperate to climb the walls, rip them apart, rip myself apart.

I fall down exhausted on a bed without a sheet in a room too filled with meaningless things. The floor covered with papers, dirty clothes, and dishes, the chaos that is my life.

Everything reminds me of my failure. My emptiness. So lost and so hopelessly numb.