Gaara stepped from the shower, shaking his slightly shaggy hair and spraying the floor with water. After drying himself, he set the towel upon the floor, to get the water he had thrown and stepped on to it. He pulled his long sleeping boxers on, a new pair, black. And then he pulled a very large yellow shirt on to his torso. With that finished, he picked up the towel and turned off the bathroom light, going to return to his room.

He stopped halfway there in confusion. "What am I doing?" he muttered, looking at the towel still clutched in his hand.
Shaking his head, he returned to the bathroom and hung the towel. So used to carrying clothes back, he must have simply forgotten.

Turning to the staircase, he started down them. Glancing at his clothes, a strange smile appeared on his face as he thought, 'I'm a bumblebee!" He chuckled, continuing down the stairs in search of his comb.
The next thought however, was sobering. 'I have many..., facets of self. To know them all..., would take immeasureable time.'

He sighed inaudibly and then stood in the kitchen, combing his still wet, shaggy red hair. It had gotten a little long in the recent months, he just hadn't felt like cutting it. Or really doing much to it. He had only recently bought the comb, his hair was often tangled and the comb fixed that. He set the comb back on the table, gazing at nothing for a moment, before he went to the fridge and picked up a soda. He carried it to his room and set it on the fan in the middle of the room.
He sat then, on his bed, a little right of the fan that was blowing cold air about the room. Sometimes it was so stifling in the room, despite how cold he kept his apartment.

His Xbox was on the music screen, playing some music, the majority of it which provoked memories of a different time.
He found his notebook and the pencil he kept with it.

'Sometimes, more often than is probably healthy, I do wonder if I am truly not insane. I go between so many different moods, so quickly. One moment, I can be this happy, almost child-like thing, and then the next I am brooding and self-hating once more. Memories I thought lost, rush back at songs I used to and still kind of love. More often, things I don't want to remember.
I hate this, this forgetting. It's getting worse. I called someone the wrong name at work. He looks like someone I vaguely knew, years ago, and so I called him that, though I know for certain that is not his name. The worst part is I called him that to a fellow associate. She knew whom I meant, thankfully, but still! My entire face burned. I felt like such a fool.'

He sighed, and got up to get a drink before sitting back down, his legs folded indian style with the notebook propped on one leg.

Last night, his chest had hurt. Rather badly, in fact. Nothing, of course, in comparison to other physical pains he has felt, but the worse he has felt in regards to his chest. Probably not a good thing.
He forgot about it actually, but..., for a moment it hurt again.

He looked over at the tv, Here I Am Alive by Yellowcard playing. An old favorite. He had very mixed feelings about this particular song lately.

'I want death. I can see that, I can live with that knowledge. But at the same time, I long for these other, material possessions. I know happiness is fleeting. I know that, I've always known that. Some days, are better than others. Wanting death really only sparks perhaps once or three times a week. It's like I wrote before, when I don't feel that way, I forget how truly terrible it is. I forget, and then the pain, is new.
Truly, I feel beyond saving. In brutal honesty, I would prefer death over life. Despite everything I have. Or could have, even.'

He sighed and looked away.

'How much of this is free-will and how much is pre-ordained?
I've often wondered, what gods and goddesses could allow such to be, but then I do suppose, if everyone had everything, we would have nothing. It is as one of my old teachers says, "Human nature pursues Strife."
There would always be something, humans could never be complacent. Even if we had everything we desired. A sad truth, it seems.'

Just then, Human Race by Three Days Grace began to play.

He smiled slightly, this particular song had become a favorite in recent times.
'If I could take my life into my own hands, if I could give myself the ability to pursue any dream, I do not know that I would pursue any dream but my ultimate choice. It makes sense, if I could have it, with no conscience of the would-be and what-if, if I could have my death, I would choose it. To have to wake no more, I would take it.
I am tired. But it is so much more than that. Despite those who try to help, nothing else seems worth it. Not really.
Though, I do not wish to hurt people by dying, I know I will however. Largely, suicide is seen as selfish. But really, when you are a prisoner of your own mind, is it not simply justice?'

"Dark thoughts," he mused aloud, rereading his writing.

'It always comes back to this, this darkness. Sure, there is light in the dark, but it is always eventually, snuffed out. In true Darkness, there is no light. I wonder if I have crossed that threshold yet, into the True Dark. I don't think so. Not yet. I think I was there, at the edge. Once or twice. But always, drug backwards. Is it better since I am not there? I don't think so. Life goes on, without any heed to those who can barely stand to get out of bed or look themselves in the mirror. We are forgotten by the world until they hear of our death and then they ask foolish questions. Sullying our death with their ignorance and trying to place blame. They can not see the beauty in it. We have freedom, at last! At long last, after suffering so much, we were granted freedom, but they never see it that way. They think Life is everything when really, Life is just a passing phase. We all die, eventually. Some of us are born wanting to.'