There's nothing I wanna see, there's nowhere I wanna go

Flickering candle, red wine, cigarettes and an open window. A cheap recreation of bohemia in my own little universe. Melancholy is as natural as breathing in this sacred environment, and I desire it like nothing else. Solitude is its own reward, yet this state of deep thought, this dark rainbow of untainted emotion is something that medical institutions try to eradicate worldwide.

The doctor asked me how long it had been since I felt like 'myself' and I had to think about it. I replied that it was probably when I was 15, before my titanic hit its own submerged iceberg. Since then though, I've gotten around to the way of thinking that this is me more than anything ever was. I was always meant to play the tortured artist, struggling for words to articulate his personal horrors amongst the concrete graveyards of the future, burning his fingers on the sullied remains of personal relationships and hidden lusts.

Those who believe in reincarnation theorise that we only reach nirvana when we have learnt the lessons set for us in each life. Well in this life I have learned to hurt, to bleed jealousy and haemorrage hatred, to love so much that the only victory is a pyrrhic one. I've learnt that the only solution to everything is triple distilled. I get the overwhelming sense that it becomes me.

It's a stockholm syndrome of the self, an exercise in futility to even think about recovery because the sadness that once imprisoned and captivated has now become my one true valentine and my only saving grace.