Kerouac Complex, yet again

you're trying too hard says that fucking voice inside your head, you know the one--that voice you get at 2 am on a wednesday night, the voice that knows you should be sleeping, but at the same time is making you stay up so you can at least try to write something comprehensible and memorable and glorious. glory-ory-ory is what you're searchin for, and what that goddam voice is yelling at you about, cuz you're trying too hard to quench it, to reach it, you want to grab hold of it and suffocate it like one of lenny's puppies. fuckin steinbeck, that genius of human nature. gotta wake up at 8, gotta wake up at 8, and it's already too late to get myself some rest, some good rest, some of the best rest. coffee made me sick today, among other things. my stomach seized itself as soon as the one sip went down, it was like the universe was trying to tell me something, like everything i highly enjoy and love was not going to go down smoothly much like this sweetened and delicious coffee, and boy was the universe right. it started with a sip and ended with a gulp, and now i am hopeless and helpless and tired with no means to an end, convincing myself it's done, it's over, when i know it will be back. back back back down that path, so familiar i could walk through with my eyes closed, and all other senses restrained. it's not that much to look at anyway. i crave a glass of wine [or maybe 3 or 4], a dreary night, and the faint whisper of mischief down the hall.