The long nap didn't help, not one bit. God, my temples are getting to a near unbearable state. Just thinking hurts like hell. Tomorrow, if I even make it, I'm gonna go see a doctor or something.
For right now, I'm not in the mood to read that book, not in the mood to think. Thankfully, a little bit of ale calmed down my numbing mind, but the pain endures. My mom keeps trying to call me, wanting me to spend some time somewhere for New Year's. To do something for my birthday. I didn't mention that, did I? Oh well, it doesn't really bloody matter. It's just my twentieth. Yes, I got my hands on ale. Don't quarrel over that, really. Like I said before. It doesn't matter.
You know, I don't know what I was thinking tonight. I guess I supposed that a lot of others would comment here, saying how it meant something to them. That my sharing of this dream journal would make a fucking difference. But no, of course it isn't. It's pointless, and within itself another addition to the long line of meaninglessness my adult life has been. I guess that's why I listened to the Beatles to begin with. To find that purpose through the stories of others. Looks like that mission failed.
There's one thing I remember vividly about being a teenager. That feeling that you had a role only you could fulfill. That vague idea that you weren't just an easily replaceable gear in a clock that continues to turn regardless of your health, or the health of those you care about. It still gets me to sigh heavily each time I ponder a little too much about it. Probably because the feeling doesn't shown any signs of returning.
Those bloody fireworks keep going off, just feeding my migraine. This computer's light is eating away at my innards. I'm going to die here if this pain doesn't go away. Okay, I need to calm down. I need to breathe. I need something to do tonight and that journal is continuing to puzzle me. Perhaps I can muster the strength to a few pages. Perhaps.
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