Exhaustion + writer's block =

Wow I'm full of bitterness tonight. I don't know what the point of anything I do is. I write. Why bother? Nothing will come of it. I sure as hell won't be rich or famous. Or even respected. I've never thought anything that hasn't been rehashed a million times over. So why bother to write it down, or even think it at all? Turn off the brain, live like a robot, watch sitcoms, listen to pop music, feign happiness through the cloud of not really comprehending anything. Don't think, just don't think, let life flow over and past and through you, as steady immoblie oblivious rock in the river.

Even river rocks change. They erode eventually, become something strange and new in spite of themselves. I don't think it's possible to live unaffected.

Yes, I still have a shiny bit of hope. All is not lost. But I'm tired and sad and I could use a hug, but I think i'll have to settle for a hot shower and a good night's sleep. C'est la guerre. Au revoir.