repetition

At some point repetition becomes tiresome. The lights dim, but somehow they become something else. Soaking into your skin, night seems like day, days last for seconds and nights become years. One would think that night would offer relief, but my mind won't stop running. It's the only time I feel I really think about anything. It's destructive. The legs of my brain begin to tear apart. They're running to hard, this kind of dying isn't an art. It crushes my spirit and destroys my dreams. Buddha taught that one should be attached to nothing, but what if something attaches to you? Thoughts of times now past play like a projection, reels spinning, playing all the moments where I am not winning. My faults become tears that I cannot dispense. thoughts repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat. Sometimes I think that I was better off a wreck, dirty streets, careless drinking, worthless drugs, and living by my instinct. We choose our mistakes and, oh god we try to forget, but at some point they just repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat.