im not trying to say that my life is horrible by any stretch of the imagination, but fuck, that doesn’t mean im happy. family always fights, takes it out on me, im the middle man, and obviously nobody told them not to shoot the messenger because I’m riddled with bullets that i will never fully understand. and sure i have 4, maybe 5, friends but we don’t talk really, apart from face to face, which, let’s be real, is maybe once a month these days, because work and life, and i feel i have no part in the bearings of their conversation, nothing to offer to anybody really. im worried that maybe london is a coping mechanism, a way for me to remove myself from everything. i think i know what’s going on in my head, and maybe going to london is a way for me to find my words, rather than myself. protection and comfort are what im looking for, in a time where lust is all i see, but can never find, much to my distaste, or maybe even resignation. 

or maybe im still high and don’t know what the fuck im talking about.