Undertow

This is what happens after marathon sessions of Grey’s Anatomy.
You turn into a blabbering fool and force your crap upon other innocent people.
It’s not even good writing. It’s just… sprawling.
And by the way? Writer's block, really helps.
Blah.

"And we wake up in the breakdown of the things we never thought we could be."

Exhaustive lack of sleep can send you right to edge of the cliff of sanity.
Where you attain this kind of decidedly tensed awareness that makes you jumpy, watchful, ramble-y and faintly insane. Faintly insane in the sense that it makes you do embarrassing things like quote The Fray (which basically means you should just dig yourself a pit to fall inside and never come out - even though it's nice. The line, i.e. not the pit.)

Ahem. Where was I?

Oh, yes.
Alert to the point of slightly psychotic.
>.<

Anyway.
You begin to pick up these little, tiny scraps of useless observations when you should be asleep - and then you begin to build them into theories.

Which is pretty much what some of us ever do, but youknowhatimean.

And then, y’know, at some point you begin to wonder why you’re still awake.
Why you bothered to pretend to get out of bed this morning, why you made yourself respectable and why you're going to trudge through this sticky swamp of a life with your horrible, ghastly dark circles and obvious issues with everything alive.
Why every time you’re beaten, you get up again - patch up the bruises and wait for the next hit.
You watch yourself, and pretty much everyone like a body-less entity. Watch them as they make their fusses, create their drama, surround themselves with something, anything to latch on to.
Switch on the music and wash away the tear stains on their cheeks.
You hike through your days with the dogged determination of a mule or some other sort of farm animal.
Why bother getting up, you wonder?
Why find something to latch on to?
Why the music?
Why anything?

And then that disgusting voice at the back of your head pipes up and says something cheesy like “Because there’s always hope and courage.”
You tell it to shut up - the stupid, stoned lunatic that it is - and continue to muse.
But then you realize that it’s not far wrong.

Because we’re all waiting.
Killing time, wasting energy.
Pushing through the pain, the insanity and the sudden upheavals of emotion in any way we know how.
Dealing with the situations and well.. surviving really.
Because?
Yeah. We’re all waiting.
All chasing that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
The truth is none of us are really courageous.
Optimistic, maybe. But not courageous.

We stay alive because we have nothing else to do.
We wade through the mess because that's all we can do.
We hope because.. what else is there to do?
So yeah.
Hang around – for the happy ending.
Leak tears.
Drop names.
Break hearts.
For your own selfish fairy tale conclusion.

So we keep waking.
Keep breathing.
Keep listening.
For that half assed happy ending which is hardly assuredly there at all.

[Then again I'm clearly overdosed on the high drama of fictional people and their fickle, fickle lives - … so don’t mind me.
And also, I may seem to be fixating on the whole coping, hoping crap.
Thoughts are a bit all over the place, right now.
So please.
Just... bear with me. >_<]