Sometimes I question why I don't immediately start writing when I'm mad with inspiration. Such was the case last night, I felt a click of the buzzing cogs in my head and just KNEW that I had that demon in me. But I turned over and tried to claw my way back to sleep since I had to be up early for work.

All I saved where two lines that could've been part of something amazing, but have settled into what I made for them instead.

I just remember the biggest part of my mind wholly wrapped around the juxtaposition of ourselves (as materialistic people) basically being Pavlov's conditioned dogs. We jump for a paycheck. We roll over for entertainment. We'd salivate at the thought of being free. This is where we are. How we live. And for the most part, I don't know if anyone cares. I know I don't. Seeing and understanding are one thing, but changing is a far different tune to dance to - and I'm terrible with keeping rhythm. I know my symptoms, and I'll likely always stay sick.