Missing my haze

Is it sickening to miss the person I was?

The masochistic self-destructive seemingly borderline personality disordered?

I wrote killers at the time, if it weren't so I wouldn't have the select but intellectual following.

However darling, it seems like you're still in a limbo. Nothing will ever be enough. And before that is taught to people, believe it yourself first, and never ask for that much. Nothing will ever be enough.

It's been too long sober.

I fucking need to be in a haze. I miss my haze, my music, my books that I have to re-read as I interpreted it wildly when I was in a haze. I miss how unfathomably attractive when I'm deep in that haze.

I'd like to put my foot on people's faces when they ring into my life and say shut the fuck up, get the hell out. I just need my books, my coffee, my haze & remember how Murakami my life had been.

And I'd like to laugh to you, cause unfortunately for us, we're too much alike. If I'm failing, you are too. I know you too well, I know you're longing. It trips me up that you will never be happy, but it's a stupid person's place, to be happy.

The intellects are too busy with being to laden with the world's sadness to be happy.

I miss my haze.