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So... been awhile. But isn't it always?

First, I want to apologize for not replying to massive amount of comments that are still sitting in my inbox from my newer works. I read them, I love them, I adore you all, but I figure at this point (since the newest one was 12 weeks ago or so, besides Euxiom 's) if I start sending replies to your inboxes you will wonder what crazy person is thanking you for what and it will probably be a whole thing.

Since we've last spoken (talked? commented? read?) I've made my move to NYC. Well, Brooklyn. On my first day, a man threatened to kill me for being white and another tried to spit on me. Other than that, it's been pretty much same-old. I guess it's true what they say. You can run as far and as fast as you can but you really can't escape yourself. I've forgotten how to sleep, I eat toast and cigarettes, and I sit around in a mostly empty apartment that doesn't quite feel like a home, or even a safe place. But my house and my parents' where both sold, so I guess I just feel... detached from the world.

I've still not acquired a job of any kind, so most of my time is spent wondering what is wrong with me. I've forgotten how to sleep, how to write. Which is bad, since I was supposed to have come here to become a writer. I have been writing all of my life, but as most of you here on DA can tell my postings are erratic and months in between. I simply don't produce the amount of writing that I think writers usually do.

I've been subsisting mostly on toast and alcohol. Most of the people who know my name in this city are bartenders or other regulars. I've fallen on sidewalks and off barstools and woken up on the wrong side of the city with no recollection of how I had gotten there.

I'm not used to the air or the chill. It's actually begun to sap the moisture from my skin and its painful. My eyes are constantly red, and I can't even get lotion to absorb properly into my skin.

Classes started, and that is all well and good. Three weeks in and I've learned nothing, done nothing worthwhile. My workshop professor won't allow my style of writing, and so I'm being forced to churn out mediocre junk that I probably wont even bother to look at twice. For a school that prides itself on being cutting edge, promoting experimentation and cross-disciplinary work, they don't seem to be overly welcome to these very ideas. So I had to sign up for weekend classes just see if I could possibly learn something. So I took a class on the prose-poem-memoir, and when I was presented with works that were supposedly examples of this, I figured I had basically wasted my Saturday. They were simply prose pieces, with a heightened sense of language.

People keep telling me things will get better. I'm having trouble believing that. I really... I just don't know anymore. I have no answers, I gave up hope a long time ago, and all I have left is a bleak reality staring me in the face. I can't even seem to find any light, anywhere. I just need to figure this out. Figure it all out. Try to come to terms with what I've lost in exchange for such little gain. Try to come to terms with everything I've done, every opportunity I've wasted, ever shred of love I have flushed away for nothing. But I am sad and I am angry all the time, and I am tired of being sad and angry all the time, and all I do is sit around and think about how I am here because of the choices I made and for no other reason. And I have to try to find some light in all this. It's just hard to do when the hole you've dug yourself so deep into is starting to cave in.

This seems like a rather pity-party of a journal. But, friends, don't worry about me doing anything crazy(er than my usual). I am used to this. I am lost, but I am used to this. If I ever find my way, I would like to think that maybe, just maybe, I will be able to look back and think that everything was worth it. I don't know how I'm going to get there, or when. In the meantime, I've got a lot of things to figure out.