Dramatic Irony

I find myself aimlessly adrift, so tired, but sleep eludes, as usual. So I set out to the tweaker and skid convention center that is Meijer at 5:00 AM. My snide comments finally realized, I have become one of the freaks at Meijer. I spot a couple of doppelgangers that send my mind reeling. I wander listlessly up and down the ethnic foods aisle, until I can't stand the sight of soy sauce and tortillas any longer. I make my way into the rapidly ceasing night air. This is the realest I have felt in a long time. Each wind-chilled step to the car feels significant, I own every stride. I am beginning to doubt my own judgement, I can't seem to grasp my desires for longer than a moment. One second I have a firm hold, than the next I can feel it slip through my fingers, with nary a hair out of place. Trust doesn't exist in this dreamworld I have manufactured. Time seems to bend and melt, to the tune of futility. I can feel my brain abuzz with dopamine. It's like I am here, but not. Staying in between the lines is a full-time job, but I find myself straying across those solid yellows. The need for constant stimulation leaves me exhausted and unfulfilled. I am so thirsty. Why can't I seem to find anything that is real? I always live in the intangible, just once I would like to reach out and touch. Sometimes I just feel like falling asleep at the wheel and letting whatever happens happen. But some part of me just can't give up that last modicum of control. It's so empowering to take your life by the reins, but it is not without its drawbacks. You end up losing quite a few people along the way. Not many people can understand the esoteric world in which I painted myself into. And it's not that hard to alienate those select few too. The need for the novel is tempered by the need for the real. Living in marital limbo is bound to take a toll. I think one of my biggest fears is being misunderstood. I would rather someone hate the real me, than love some android. I fear I may be going down a path without much of a trail of breadcrumbs. Out of pain comes art, not to say I consider the chicken scratch I produce, art. I can hardly keep my eyes open.