I am not a walrus.

Lights out.

One glance at the laptop screen.

Media player on. Check.

Playlist selected. Check.

Headphones connected. Check.

Correct sound settings. Check.

Stray thought pops up: Damn, I’m one hell of an audiophile.

Stop it already. Time to plug in.

And so, I assume my position on the bed.

I lie still, as still as I possibly can. The only visible movement is the rise and fall of my chest as I breathe, slowly and evenly.

My eyes are closed. It’s time for them to rest.

Touch and hearing are the only senses left working: hearing because it’s the only one I need, and touch because it’s impossible to turn off.

My sense of smell is already screwed up, ergo it’s out of the equation.

No, I am not relaxing. This, in fact, is an exercise. A workout.

The music in my ears is not Mozart or Chopin, but Armin van Buuren.

It’s music for dancing, not for lying motionless like a corpse.

And yet, here I am, doing exactly that. Fighting the intense urge to move in time with the music as the thumping beats relentlessly beckon me to, like sirens among treacherous rocks.

All that chaos, while appearing completely tranquil on the outside.

This is an exercise in restraint. In stifling emotion-driven tendencies so as to form a protective veneer around this broken self.

This is an exercise in being cold. So cold, that touching my heart will give you frostbite.

Self-preservation through turning myself into a mere stone sculpture: Apathetic, emotionless and yes, cold.

And it’s all because of the fact that passion nearly killed me.

Definitely not what the shrink ordered, but I couldn’t care less.

Emotion-driven deletion.

I have a photography project that isn't even halfway through. One of the major perks of the job: I get zero time for anything not work-related.

I have to say, it's totally awesome. NOT.

The creative juices aren't flowing anymore. The pressures of work have robbed me of what's left of it. There's simply no room for hobbies or passions now. The unfinished project desperately calls out to me, begging to be completed, promising to be my personal magnum opus--but I am forced to ignore the cries. I'd sit in a chair for five minutes, and someone calls me a slacker already. So how is one supposed to finish something that'll take hours and hours of sitting in front of a computer screen every day?

There is simply no way I can continue this, like, ever. Leaving it in the folder would just piss me off, so I decided to pull the plug on it. Delete the project. Delete the original files. I even uninstalled the Photoshop software. No one uses it anyway. I'd have tossed the camera in the trash too if I hadn't considered the fact that it's worth about twelve grand--accessories and all. My last name isn't Gates or Trump or freaking Vanderbilt. Getting a new one is out of the question. I can only imagine smashing that thing to pieces in my head.

Now, if only I could smash it on another person's skull. That would be awesome indeed.

Loving things.

Found a quote on Twitter a while ago:

People are made to be loved. Things are made to be used. The world is in chaos because things are being loved and people are being used.

 It got me pondering for a while. Just for a while.

And then I stopped thinking.