I longed to blissfully bask in my ignorance, to forget what had happened and to simply lie on the cold floor, allowing myself to slowly die off, not another thought in my head. For an hour, I did exactly that. Unable to sleep yet unable to live, I curled up on the floor like a dying animal, pathetic, useless, and just waiting for death’s bittersweet embrace.
I longed to blissfully bask in my ignorance, to forget what had happened and to simply lie on the cold floor, allowing myself to slowly die off, not another thought in my head. For an hour, I did exactly that. Unable to sleep yet unable to live, I curled up on the floor like a dying animal, pathetic, useless, and just waiting for death’s bittersweet embrace.
I no longer had the urge to write. The publishing company was now nonexistent. Besides, who would there be to read my work? A job in the media is worthless without other people. Even the most introverted writer must realize that someday.
I hope this bit isn't autobiographical! In fact, hope the whole thing is pure fiction, although can certainly empathize with the hangover from hell!