All alone

"Shit". This wasn't how I wanted to start this off. When it’s the first thing in your mind when you wake, it means you don't want to see that sun. You open your eyes and look up into the sky and you can't even see, you can't see because all of your senses are occupied by that horrible burning sensation in your skull. That feeling of 10 billion grit sandpaper being pulled across your retinas. Every night before you nod off, you’d tell yourself, 'Well, it's been fun, but that's it. It's all over, finally.' And in a few hours, you open your eyes to heaven only to have them burn like hell.
You'd think the same thing if deja vu no longer had meaning to you. You know this has happened before, you can remember exactly when. Every day for the past month, year, decade. The sun keeps rising every morning, mocking you as if to say, 'Hey, this world is still turnin' pal. Another day has arrived to your doorstep, what are you gonna do with this one?' But this conversation no longer takes place, because the answer is always the same, was always the same, always will be the same. To answer this, you'd only prove yourself wrong. To answer this, you'd be giving in. The only answer is silent hope.
Hoping for death is pointless. It will come, your hope will be fulfilled. Hoping for life, for second chances though, that's even worse. Because once you realize even hope has left you abandoned, well good luck climbing from that hole. So, here's the answer to final jeopardy: I am hoping for some sunscreen.
People used to say, I remember I used to be so happy. People used to say, I remember. What I remember is complaining about how unhappy I was all the time, then realizing I was even worse now than before, so, relatively speaking, I was happy then. I could tell you, I was happy when I wasn't stranded on a tiny island somewhere in the Atlantic with no shade and no food. But I would be lying to you. I just found other things to keep me from smiling.
Let me tell you something about isolation. If you can’t sing, and no one can hear you sing, do you sing? This question of the ages can now be answered. I can't allow myself to hear myself sing. Hearing that atonal stream from sore vocal chords met with absolute silence on a desert island put me into dry heaves. How's that for self-regulation? Here's another: I don't talk to myself out loud because I don't want people to think I am crazy. So when I wake up, and that huge yellow ball of hydrogen and helium and nitrogen and ultraviolet radiation knocks on my eyelids the same time every single day, I can't even have the satisfaction of a huge cursing fit. My vocal cords are no longer functioning from atrophy. Instead, I conjure up a million sentences of any word I think will fit this feeling, and through my squinted eyes, I grit my teeth and fling this huge string of obscenity and rage right back at it. Except it never seems to exit my thoughts, instead, all day long, I just have the most foul train running loops through my mind, never dropping it's cargo. I pity the cruise ship that stumbles across my Isla de la Screwyou. I'll be bright red and throwing my arms around wildly trying to let loose upon them and the world. That’s right, leave me here, I'm a local.
When I first came here, I thought, you know, things could be worse. I probably rubbed my hands together and looked around like I was getting ready to redecorate my neighbor’s house. Yep, I think there's definite potential here. I probably watched the sunset that first day, pleasantly wondering how I'll get out of this. A week later, I was violently banging my head against a large rock, trying to get out of it.
In time, your full time job becomes simply ending the monotony. You think up stupid games to keep your mind busy, you count things and look for little patterns in everything. And you find some, and then when you see those patterns the next day, they just become horrible reminders of how bored you were yesterday. But at least yesterday you had something to do. You spend days lying down, until your muscles begin to ache and you are forced to stand up and walk around until you get tired and have to lie down. There are patterns everywhere.
At night, you stare off, zone out, wait for the sleep to come. Dreams become your best friend, before they leave you back where you started out, with a new found realization of how much you are missing. The only way to end this constant regret every morning would be to sleep forever. And hoping for that… is pointless.
To be alone, is to realize how dependent you'd like to become. To be alone, rescue becomes a knock on the door. An irregularity in the pattern. In my dreams, I'll find someone else’s door, and pound my head into it until I sleep forever. Or at least that's the hope.