feeling weird at 2:48 am

This week has left me completely drained. 

I finally got my legal situation dealt with, so I've been looking for a proper job while planning what to do next. I should be happy, shouldn't I? All of the barriers between my wants and me are gone, well, for at least most of my wants. I'm not even completely sure of what my "wants" would be at this point. 

I can get a job I want, go to college, and have a normal life. I guess I'm just  lost like everyone else is. What would a normal life be like? What do I do? If you asked me right now, I'd say I'd love to go somewhere far away. Not outside of the country since I still have my legal limitations, but I'd get on a plane and go as far as the law allows me to. 

Alaska always cought my attention. 

I don't know what I want to do. It despairs me. I wish I had my shit more put togehter. Everybody is lost, yes, but nobody shows it. Me? I look like a hot mess any time of the day. My skin is bumpy, my hair is oily, my eyebags are tattoed on my face, and my hands are fucked all over. 

I have projects, but I don't know how they'll come to fruition. Or when. Time flies by and I'm frozen somewhere in a distant past. 

My mind is back home, my true home. Some cheesy song about depression while I walk home late at night. My homeland is violent, and a young girl like I was could have met a horrible fate. Yet I felt unstoppable, staring through the trees and ignoring my surroundings. Maybe even back home I was always somewhere else. Just the way I am now. 

I take my hands off the steering wheel on all the red lights and zone out. As soon as the light turns green I step hard on the gas, speeding to my destination of the day. It's funny really. Driving fast. Reminds me I've always had a deathwish. I want to go fast, close my eyes, and take my hands of the wheel. 

Maybe that way I'll find out if God is real. 

Or maybe I'll win a prolongued stay at the hospital; my miserable mind trapped in a wrecked body. 

I think of death so often. But I don't consider myself as suicidal as I used to be. Yes, I still get those urges to go bye-bye and jump off the nearest bridge I can find. But it's not as bad as before. That's doesn't mean I don't think of death on the daily. It's in my nature. It's in my blood. 

Sometimes I think that I don't really have a purpose. Not in the depressed way. I'm being genuine. I'm an artist. My paintings are wonky, my guitar is always out of tune, and my writings are confusing. Yet, I'm still an artist. I must create or I spiral into madness.  And though I'd love to say I was born to create, I think I was born just to die. 

I talked with an old friend a few weeks ago and we complained about life. "If things keep going like this, I'll have to pick up some new addiction."

I think she was right.