beautiful boys keep me going

I like to sleep when I get home from university, because it means that I won't have to talk or see anyone. Sometimes, while I am sleeping, my mother will open the door, wake me and abuse me over an earlier argument, slam it shut and come back twenty minutes later.

There is little sanctuary in my room. Boy accuses me of spending too much time on the internet, and he is right. For me, there is a certain comfort about being online and surfing random pages that I really have no interest in. About knowing who's online on ICQ or MSN. It keeps my mind occupied long enough so that for a while it can forget about things like whether or not I would die if I jumped off the balcony outside the clocktower, or how long it would take for the pain of a bleeding cut above my wrist to subside, would it go away at all?

So we begin university. Everyday it rains and makes the rubbish littered concrete which is campus look worse than the day before (one might think that this would be impossible), and I weave umbrellaless through people and stalls to rush to lectures where I end up sitting on the floor anyway.

There are people everywhere. People I know. People I don't know. Drunk people in the quad singing karaoke who give me headaches. People trying to give me fliers and enrol me in the electoral role. Sick, sniffly people in my lectures who I don't really want to be sitting next to, but have no choice. Stoned people with dreads and glazed eyes, who look happy no matter what.

I want to kill them all.

Comfort is the thought of living in a black box of nothing. There is a temptation towards drugs which scares me still. And smoking, more so now since I tried my first few proper drunken puffs on Friday (courtesy of Ben). It made me feel relaxed, or perhaps it was just my drunk mental state. I have never smoked before. Boy and my friends were none too impressed, but I wonder if I even care anymore.

There is little I know about anything real at this stage. Things I do know are trivial, like the fact that I know a lot of beautiful boys on campus. This was probably the most enlightening thought I had all day, after Bertie decided to have a meaningful discussion (or as much meaning as he is capable of) with me while he was waiting for a lecture and I was waiting for Boy, and Thomas (whose eyes looked amazingly blue today) strutted over to say hi shortly after Bertie left.

Without these trivialities, I imagine that I would be crying all the time. Lately I find that I am prone to crying more than usual: tear filled eyes in lectures, sobs outside of lectures, sniffles in bathrooms over unfixable problems that have taken over my mind.

I accuse Boy of not being happy to see me anymore. He assures me that he is only grumpy because he has been sick for over a week, and has a sprained ankle. If I had been with him at the time of the accident, it would never have happened. If I knew how to drive a manual car he would not have to strain it by walking. If I had not made the mistake of going on chat four years ago, my sister would probably be a better person. If I was more tolerant and unselfish my mother would love me and not tell me that I was such a terrible person that nobody could marry me everyday.

What is the limit, I wonder. How much more am I capable of dealing with before my head bursts. Before I take more than two sleeping pills because I can't handle my thoughts anymore. Before I get a sharper knife from the kitchen because at least the physical pain will escape the emotional. Before I stop caring at all, and do something I will regret for the rest of my life. Or not regret, because I will never know what happens after?

And why should I even care about how other people will feel. They don't know what happens in my head, and in my heart. They won't wipe my tears away. They won't understand. They will only judge.

They will tell me that I am crazy.

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