Notes to Cindy: The Archives

There's a "Bermuda Triangle" in Fletcher. North Carolina, and right now, I'm living in it. It was poison that led me here- poison plants, poison creatures, poison water, poison places, poison people, a poison mind, a poison life made up of poison events.... I'm scared. I'm paranoid. I wish the poison would hurry up and kill me. After twenty-three years, It still hasn't and I'm afraid it never will.

So, here I sit, naked and vunerable, in the small jungle of Flecher Park, attempting to write, but I'm not sure I know how anymore. I'm exhausted physically and emotionally, but every time I try to sleep, I just drift in and out of hallucination. If I wanted to hallucinate, I'd overdose on LSD. This shit is just ridiculous.

If I were to jump in the creek and let its current take me to a deserted island, that island still wouldn't be my home. The Irony of being "Homeless" is that I've spent most of my pathetic waste of life without one. I've only ever had two places of my own and life proved to me very quickly that I did not belong in either of those places, and they were most certainly not mine. I keep thinking, "This is it. This is my family. These are my friends. This is my perfect job. This is my chance." Every fucking time though, just as I'm getting comfortable, life kicks me back to the fucking streets. Why do I persist in this endless cycle of disappointment? Why do I even bother? If I want to die so badly, why can't I fucking do it.