Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation.
I decided to journal today, and ******** I can't think of what to say anymore.
I'm high as ********. I had to get my green card, to smoke for my migraines. And I live every day in a haze because of it. I think a part of me is grateful for the chance because I can numb how I feel every day. I don't even know what feelings are when I'm high. And it's wonderful. I don't even feel love and I couldn't be happier about it.
I'm rambling. I have a lot to say, with no idea how to say it anymore. Oh well. I'll just take another hit, and block it out anyways.
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