A Cycle is a Cycle is a Cycle

I am frustrated and exhausted writing by dim light. I am aching for a cigarette, and I could use a stiff drink so bad I can almost smell the sour intoxication of whiskey. I just spent the last 45 minutes in my computer chair reading over old writing. A preservation of the past. Old note books, old blogs, anything I could get my hands on as long as I produced it. An undeniable narcissism. Stuck in my past, staring at pages stiffened with age, I see no advancement. Am I in Limbo?

I think about my accomplishments and wonder why it seems to be a never ending cycle. Even if I am not living it directly, I still feel like I am seeing it. A peripheral delusion.

Realizing, though I am incredibly flawed, that I am not entirely to blame. Realizations come through repetition, and in these old pages I see uncomfortable patterns. The focus of my complaints have landed on the same certain people, and I have finally found advancement in something. And though my complaints stay the same they have progressed into something more intelligent. A whining more thought out.

Who knows? Maybe it isn't me who is stuck in Limbo.