As my posts become less and less frequent, so does my strive to write them. Is it safe to assume that I am no longer miserable? Or am I simply at a crossroads, staring both blind terror and blind happiness between the eyes. I don't like what the pills have done to me, to my soul, or to my train of thought. I know no creativity anymore. I am an institutionalized bore. Just a dandy has-been. Yes, life causes me no stress or no harm. My mind has not been allowed the space to breathe, procreate, or flourish with the kind of thoughts that would make even the happiest person reconsider their own worth. What I am trying to say is that I am incapable of feeling misery. Everything is going right. Too right. I reminince of those days I was merely a slave to my own occupant thoughts. Such a beautiful, fragile place to be in. I participated in modes of thinking that would make a blessed man retch. Anyone with even an inch of courage would have taken none of it if in my shoes. Though that is something I don't have. Courage. Today I cut my finger and my mum put on a plaster for me. Like the sickening innocence of a petulant child. The blood did excite me somewhat, though I have never intentionally pierced my own skin. My body has a passionate intolerance toward drugs, alcohol, caffeine and pain. I am as clean as a whistle. The only thing I happen to abuse is my mind in all it's frailty. Something more fragile than any part of my physical anatomy. And throughout my drug-less, caffeine-less, very-little-measures-of-alcohol fuelled lifestyle, I remain one of the most corrupt I adhere to know of.

I have been off the pills for almost 2 weeks and I still feel content. No overpowering sensation to bang my head off a wall. No inability to think clearly and sanely, and certainly no muffled hallucinations of people calling my name. I begged to be helped. Something listened. I regret to inform you that, in the most apologetic and regretful manner, I miss my insanity.

I have nothing to hold on to.