Plots, colours and contentment

His words are that of meaning, it sinks in deeper than any others, I feel them writhing and making their way up to my brain, travelling by way of veins, furiously pumping weak blood, under bruised and scarreds arms and a charred but still functional heart.
The problem is, as much as the words go in to my sponge like brain, they can not get to the center, I push them away and rely soley on my own delusions, but ehy? I'm sure if I were capable of just for once, accepting what I were told without questionisng it to the point of non-existance, I would be so much happier. Content, is the world, without need or want. Oh, it would be beautiful, my mind set to rest inside a beautiful dream-like realm, where I would find the colours.
But instead, I pick apart his judgement, I pick him to pieces, I can not allow he I know who is right to control my thoughts, that would be putting faith in him like he were a God. But Dr. War says I am my own God, which makes a lot of sense, it really does.
So, there was a start, a start in which I carried myself with curiosity, a fine memory and a fascination for everything. There was the end, where I go insane, maybe die, but point of, life as I know it will end. Now, what for the middle? No story should have to end so suddenly.
If this is the middle, it makes for one hell of a plotless book.

Ciggarettes laced with sedatives, crooked plans and addiction go hand in hand. I must watch out for these things in the time I stay here. Why? Not sure, but they're sure to haunt me, if not hurt me.