ties that bind

I click on links that lead to pages now long dead.

If only it was just that easy to disappear--well it is that easy to disappear--irl, yet if ever I would disappear, I would disappear with a heavy heart. My pride ties me to my obligations; and my love, no matter how loud I proclaim that I'm not, binds me.

I just don't want to see you hurt--that is why I stay, even with this heavy heart.

This, as I write half-heartedly, the muse now slowly being confined to something akin to a sweatshop, churning out works at the pace of many a day. No wonder journalism didn't appeal to me--the thought of no weekends no holidays all writing--seemed to be a dreary life. The muse on demand all over again, and I start to resent the whole idea of writing when no one's reading, including myself.

I hate it I hate it I hate it. It's starting to become a nausea-inducing drug; I'm hooked and hate it but can't get off.

And I don't want this to happen. I worry about the future, and what'll happen to me when I get a real job similar to this. I wish I'd become successful enough to live off my royalties, but heck, no writer becomes that famous here.

If only adrenaline rushes can be injected with a needle, and if only they were pretty much legal.