Total insomnia last night, a.k.a. devastating insomnia. The type that leaves me pretty fucked up in the late morning/early afternoon hours when mixed with alcohol.

I know alcohol doesn't mix with insomnia. It makes function difficult and delays recovery. I used to be able to avoid drinking during insomnia, but recently it's just been I-don't-care-all-fuck.

Still, I managed to get out to the library and read as is routine and it felt like I wasn't completely wasting my life away. No eating, though, as long as I wasn't hungry. All I ate today was a chicken sandwich. Again, not enough to puke, but it still lay me out for an hour. Evidence that my stomach isn't working.

Again, overall drinking was down, but not out of choice.

I ate very little today, so no puking. That's not to say there wasn't queasiness after the little I did eat. I guess I didn't eat quite enough to puke. I did end up feeling unpleasantly hungry later after I got home; a rare display of appetite. That doesn't mean I could have eaten much, nor that I wouldn't have felt sick afterwards.

I slept a solid five hours mainly possibly probably because I turned off the lights way past my usual bedtime. I'll still chalk that up as no insomnia since I woke up not feeling fucked up.

I did get out today, trying to get back to my routine, but no attempt at exercise. Still considering giving that up completely.

Drinking may have declined these past few days, only because I have to; only because my body can't take it anymore. That is to say I'm not quite able to drink the usual almost a bottle a day.

On Monday, I went out and got something to eat. Soba noodles. After coming home, I put on my running gear without any intention of doing any sort of jog or plod. Shin splints appeared again last week and I've been off since then.

I went out to the riverside path and confirmed I wasn't going to try any sort of exertion; I just wanted to be out. Ended up just milling about listening to music before puking up the soba noodles and then returning home. I try to be discreet about puking in public and I don't think anyone saw me.

Yesterday, Tuesday, I didn't eat anything. I didn't get out. Raging insomnia totally messing with my routine. I also didn't puke at all.

Today, still insomnia. Did go out and get something to eat and came home. Puked it all up after several hours of lying on my bed feeling deathly sick, listening to my heartbeat in my ears, unable to pay attention to the Harry Potter movie I was trying to watch.

I don't know if this means anything. This is just what happened. It's probably happened before and I probably even posted about it.

The decline continues with no end in sight. How far can the descent go without reaching a bottom?

I haven't had anything to say for the past two and a half months. That's not true. There's always something. It's been dark and getting darker, and still no proactive plan to end things.

Thoughts of death and dying have been prevalent, but still just a lot of stagnation and theory. There's no reason for me to be alive. There is no clinging to hope; there is no "hope", just the last lame selfish enjoyment of continuing to listen to music. That's all that's left really.

Clinging to any last reason to live, and all I can come up with is listening to K-pop? There is no other reason I'm still alive. I'm not living for anyone, I'm not productive, I don't produce anything, I don't contribute to anything; not to anyone's perspective, knowledge or happiness. I'd've made a terrible Protestant.

It occurs to me that this blog may ultimately turn against me. It's very possible it still may be found by people who knew me. It's very possible that people would be disgusted by my attitude towards my life.

You hear of people called heroes who fought for their lives in the face of adversity, and here I am just throwing it all away just waiting for an end. It should have ended a long time ago. Where I am is the result of how I've always lived my life and I never intended to live this long.

Ten years, twenty years ago people may have reacted differently. Maybe understanding if not sympathy, not that I would have expected it. If I died now, having written all I've written, I expect a reaction more on the lines of "what a fucking idiot, should've gotten over with it before".

I can't imagine anyone being affected by my dying; old story I know. I expect it to just be passing news. You hear of people dying and other people paying tribute. Even mentioning their death is a tribute. I can't even imagine a mention.

How can my death have any littlest bit of impact on anyone else when my life hasn't had the littlest bit of impact on anyone else? My life goal has been to have as little impact on anyone else. And it goes both ways. I don't expect anyone to be affected and no one has the right to be affected.

When someone dies, people close have the right to "own" the dead; the right to mourn, the right to acknowledge the person meant something. No one has that right with me.

Now I realize that the most I could expect is disdain and disgust.

The past two and a half months have been a mess. I don't even know what it means anymore to think that things are spiraling out of control. A logical train of thought leads me to conclude nothing is spiraling out of control.

Mindfulness practice has felt like it has gone off the rails, but mindfulness practice is what keeps things grounded. Daily sitting has suffered more than it ever has except during the worst of insomnia. I can't seem to understand, much less absorb, the readings I read and re-read anymore.

Still, mindfulness practice is still a skill like casting magic spells in the Harry Potter series of books. Certain unwanted negative emotions or thoughts arise and you can identify them and recite an incantation and wave a wand and make it fly off.

I am immersed, mind you, in reading the Harry Potter books and watching the films which are showing on HBO. Whatever works. Twenty-five years ago it was reading the Lotus Sutra and equating concepts from Carl Sagan's "Cosmos" series.

Such comparisons only contribute to the utter meaninglessness.

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