Stream of Unconsciousness

I am unhappy again. And it's better when I'm not happy. Everything moves in all the right ways in my brain, for once I'm not a static thought repeating itself until the walls of my head are scribbled with the same line over and over again like the blackboards from old classrooms. I will not lie again, I will not lie again, I will not lie again, All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, All play and no work makes Jane useless and unfuckingsatisfied with her pathetic life. 
Is it really that pathetic though? What is so cringe worthy that you can't deal with anymore? What are the monsters under your bed and why do you love them so? Is it because the nightmares are more tangible and less likely to forget? Is it that the good things are becoming so far apart that the hiatus between the moments in which you are happy without thinking or doubting it are a wasteland of forgotten thoughts? What if you could write all of that down? What if someone could hear that little voice in my head loud and clear until the things eating away at my core would worm themselves through the eardrums of the listeners until they all understood? Could they take it?
Everyone is a rotten apple in this fucked up garden of Eden, and we all have bad things worming their way in and out of us, like as many bad fucks on a prostitute's cross-out calendar. Crossing out the days until you don't really care about your birthday anymore - or about weekends, or about holidays, Monday Tuesday Wednesday become words that hold no meaning, empty carcasses of what they used to signify, why wake up and why go to work and why in God's name waste away your Thursdays Fridays that blend into one long workday just to get to the Saturday and Sunday of your miserable week that soon becomes a miserable month and sooner than you can say 9 to 5 you have a full year of Mondays and no way out.
Brave? Who has the time to be brave anymore? It's all go go go, run, if you don't run you won't keep up, if you fall then crawl, anything just keep moving. Never stop, why stop, there's no reason to stop, hurl yourself towards the grave, free-fall from the clouds that once held your dreams until your face is planted in the cold Earth that holds nothing but more worms for that rotten apple that you have become. Gravity took you and physics decided you were too old to believe in anything higher than yourself so you fell from that tree, covered in layers of knowledge that only made you heavier and sadder and you were hurled to the ground like so many others before and after you. You are not a seed, worthy of planting. You are a rotten apple and the garden is ugly and there's graffiti on the inside of my skull.
Sad is better than numb. Sad is better than nothing.


You have a gift though, oh God you have a gift but that gift only works when you don't and you're afraid you'll either lose it or lose yourself in the process. And if that's the case, which one would you choose?

All the bad memories are coming. There's no distraction to stop them. I'm scared.