Fixation

At times, I wake up in the middle of the night after an ocean of gin washed me back to the shores of the waking world. No headache. No nausea. Just an indescribable feeling of emptiness, as if my insides were carved out.
In these moments, the radio is usually on and the music there only helps to resurrect the madness of a thousand people that lived and died within my head.
I laid on the floor minutes in a row falling in and out of sleep. My body, like Charon`s boat, carried in and out of all sorts of hells.
I try writting but by the time I`m done, the paper doesn`t seem to worth less than the wood it was massacred for. The source of this anxiety is my neverending discontent with the world.
This unbarred feeling that I have so much to offer yet nobody to offer it to.
I can almost feel it, like cold hands against my throat, this feeling that I am wasting away somehow, suspended in cold indifference, like a planet without a sun.