I don't remember writing this

Fuck, it’s been so long now. I don’t remember the last time I had time to sit down, that or write. I don’t even know if I still can, but the words still flow out of my pen as smoothly as the varnished wooden top of this desk. I don’t know why I’m even doing this. No one will read it and even if some ones does then to their naive eyes it will be a jumble of meaningless words and stories. Experiences of someone else in a different time. Someone who doesn’t matter, who never mattered, and who will never matter. I am less than a speck on the infinite plane of the universe. Neither I nor anyone will make a truly lasting impression on this place. Thinking about it makes me want to kill myself but then I would make an even smaller impression. And what is it really that drives all these goddamn people through life? To leave some, any no matter how small, impression or mark on the world. Anything really. Have kids, have a wife, traumatize children, go on a killing spree, the list is endless. Whatever you can do you do it. It’s built into our DNA. I don’t know if its fact or fiction at this point. The thought won’t form, my mind is muddled and I am faced with a loneliness that I have possessed all my life. The sounds help ease it. This is for me alone. I need this; I need to do this to survive. I don’t even know what the purpose is at this point. I want to give up, lie down and sleep forever, absorb myself in flashing screens and a perfect, wondrous, fake reality until I am dust, but no. It hurts so good. My fingers slow as the gravity of the situation hit and I go on. This is for me. Even though I must limit myself I can still control a bit of it. They are so happy, how do I become one of them? Is anyone happy? Where is Utopia? No, not too far, can’t go too far. Life is a prolonged stretch of pain with just enough pleasant experiences to create the illusion of it being worth living. Am I deep, am I intelligent, or am I just mirroring the thoughts of all around me? I must succeed, I will be happy. Live the dream! Concentrate! Must now write what I meant to do. It all started when I was born. Most of it is gone anyways. I don’t know why I try. A self-projected character is a failure or a god. I want every one of mine to be that way, but it is doomed to failure. Is my fake real? If you pretend for a long time do you become it? Fading…. I am almost gone. The sleep has caught me while I lie. The night that I didn’t want to now it is here. I will not write more. This is a stand-alone; consciousness is a joke. The mind is a puzzle best left unsolved. Midnight is here.