New life, new responsibilities. A life to be jelous of. And yet a part of me is jelous of theirs, although I would not be able to make the trade.
I need the time to pass, to dispear into the life of pleasure while I await for the “real existance” to become sufferable.
Soon. The pressure is the push that the promise of bliss could not ceate. “Furute” can be postponed where pain can not.
… … …
This, that, a million things.
And I can not hold onto the care required to translate the thoughts into words, into action.
So for now I will allow myself the splurge.
There are worse drugs than sleep.