2 Years

And so, two years later, I find myself once again, in the deepest depths of madness. The book is ended, and I am left with a void filled only by thoughts which were meant to be forgotten. Chemicals help to make things make sense, as they always did.. but after prolonged abuse, like all good things, even chemicals come to an end. I developed a tolerance. I hate this weakness of the body. I am left with only the ability to whine and complain about the dark fate which was bestowed upon me. And even though I keep saying to myself that it's better than it used to be, I have the feeling it is comparable to the same melancholic madness which drove me to the pen two years ago.

What has changed then? I grew older, and maybe wiser, but to what use? The dark and pale hobby of before, has been replaced with a fiery and vivid obsession. A lot more substance, a lot more doubt. In a way, it is good, because it means drive. But looking at it from the empty half of the glass, I see only failure. An inevitable sad end to a journey that has been going nowhere ever since the very first miserable day it started. All the omens are there - like before. The only difference is, the road has a lot more bumps. And where one would think bumps are undesirable in a road like this, one soon comes to realize, a flat and smooth road becomes boring and as such, devoid of any challenge, when compared to the other one. As of yet, all the bumps in this road have been acceptable, and easily ignored by helpfully hopeless spirit. This is where I would stick the good old 'ignorance is bliss' phrase, but seeing as ignorance is not really the term to be used here, I choose not to. A more preferable description would be 'blindness'. One sense obscures the other, and even though it is absurd to be unable to see because there is too much noise, this is exactly the case to which I'm referring to. One sense, having grown stronger than the other, obscures it and prevents it from performing its own function. Then again, that function in itself is of dubious nature, and I don't feel it is my place to judge its usefulness. Who knows, maybe it is meant to be obscured.
Two years later, who knows... perhaps my senses, are growing weaker. Perhaps more refined. The book ended, I need to get a new book. How can a new book ever replace the old? I've grown so accustomed to the old. Perhaps if it was the same author or if he wrote a sequel of which I wasn't aware of... perhaps. I need to look for a new book. I still have the old one with me. I have 3 more days to carry it around with me before I am forced to pay for not bringing it back on time. Small fee, but why all the trouble. I am almost anxious to be standing crouching on the library floor, next to the long stack of books of all colors and sizes and spending the time to pick one that will be to my liking. But enough about literature.
This situation, in which I find myself now, is, to be honest, rather new for me. It began with the shock of mathematics and a long night of spilling my guts out in the toilet of a cold bathroom with a finger stuck down my throat. Maybe it's not the most pleasant way to begin something new. But then again, what doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger. So... I survived. I once again picked up the daily routine of caffeine ingestion from two years ago. So why is it different now? For starters - I take the time and effort (well deserved effort) to brew my own cup of steamy black piece of heaven. I drink it in a ceramic cup, with sugar milk and everything else to my liking. Compared to the disgusting coffee-machine coffee in a plastic cup from two years ago, I would say this is a sort of a small victory. Furthermore, I don't have three or four pairs of omnipresent eyes watching every step I make. Granted, there is a camera constantly monitoring the general direction in which I stay, but that is far better than having actual human eyes, set on constantly evaluating the usefulness of my presence there.
I don't sleep.
Two years ago, I slept. I am not supposed to sleep. On a security camera placed some 10 meters or more away, having your eyes closed or having them open makes little difference, even less so to someone who has to watch 10 or so of these feeds, each on a little black and white screen. Therefore - I COULD sleep. I don't. Despite the increased monotonic nature of tonight as compared to nights of before, I find myself able to keep awake. I associate this with the decreased sense of obligation from my presence here, as opposed to the stress of being productive two years ago. Then, I could stress myself to sleep for the first 5 hours. Now, it is an even equilibrium of tranquility which keeps me just awake enough not to get fired.
And the most amusing part about this situation is - I have my friends to thank for it. Not the government, not the school, not even my own pathetic excuse for a set of research skills. I would say it was luck if I believed in it. But I guess since all that matters is being at the right place at the right time, I can safely credit them for this.
And so, where two years ago I had big plans for the end of the summer, I now find myself apathetic and bored. Seeing as the extent of my material aspirations didn't grow much beyond those of two years ago, and considering the fact that the impact of the emancipation of those said plans wasn't all that it was drawn out to be, I see no use in continuing that trend.
For lack of better things to do, I could however give in to the temptation and repeat my actions of then. I have a lot more time now to consider this though. Almost double the time as of two years ago. So it is hard to say what will eventually be the end of this. I guess that will be the subject for another text.

Passed the half of the time I have to be here. I don't know if that makes a difference anymore. When you have nothing to do and aren't really supposed to be doing something, time passes by slowly. When you have nothing to do but are supposed to be doing something which you are not, time passes by even slower. At least I am tranquil. I am blessed with solitude and very little responsibility. O the divine pleasure I take in this type of work as opposed to another. For now, it is a good retreat from the real world. Some interaction wouldn't have hurt, but, forced interaction is worse than no interaction at all. No. I'm lying. Forced interaction is better, but to the limit of giving you the possibility to choose the amount of interaction you have with those imposed upon you. I am not making any sense except to my own reason. It is like this: you are placed in a room, with an arbitrary number of other people. This is forced interaction. You see them, they see you, and they may even speak to you. The point of it being unpleasant, is when you are expected, no matter what, to answer back when addressed to. If it were up to you, a situation where you could pick and choose whom to respond, or to address would be the more desirable case. Maybe now it's clearer, maybe more confusing than it was before.
This is the point where I stretch, Yawn and finish this text only to begin another (I promise it will stop once I get a new book).