Vents : In A Book.

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I sit here in the middle of the night.
Ive been watching movies to try and stay up as long as I can but im grew quite tired of them surprisingly.

I get my bed ready to lay down in it and to prepare myself for the long, boring, sleepless night ahead. I try to stay focused on just staring at the ceiling to keep myself bored and hopefully knock out of said boredom, but I can't, not tonight at least.

My mind wanders off as I am encased by the dark thoughts that are pounded into my skull each day. I find my self drifting into all the venom spat from my tormentors' mouths. I get carried into a typhoon of whispers that are spoken of me behind my back that I am able to hear clear as day. The passages of hate I read from absolute strangers. The goodbyes from the people I love that literally run from me that cause me anguish. The secrets I thought I could trust supposed friends with that only came back to stab me in the back and release the stories I've entrusted those unsealed lips that had sworn that they were locked closed, I think they found the keys. And I find my own thoughts spilling like waterfalls falling off the cliffs of mountains from my eyes.

I hadn't realized that I was silently sobbing until the sting of dry cries knocked me back into reality. I had just now noticed that I had gone from laying on my most hated stomach to my laying on my wide back to sitting on my fat ass to a now fetal position with my knees in my face, being wrapped in my own arms, facing my wall I can barely even see. The trails of tear stains made my skin feel tight on my face.

And then I just stopped. As I always do. As if my mind, body, and soul were a house and they all just experienced a black out. And then I laid down again and I just stared at my ceiling like I had originally planned and I now have an empty mind.

Just looking into the never ending darkness of the ceiling of my cave of dwellings.