My head hurts.

There's so much white noise that it's turned black. Every morning and every night, the source obfuscates my general direction and I feel...irritatingly lost. I can't wish upon a star or hope in faith, trust, and pixie dust anymore. The second star to the right has finally unbegotten its light, and now Neverland is out of reach. I'm stuck with the London clock ticking away while I sit and ponder over which shoes to fill. There's a pendulum around me, yes, the white noise, and it makes my head hurt. Tears burn, so I don't make them. Anger's confusing, so I don't wallow in it. Instead, I just sit here and stare at the white noise, eyes bulging at the omnipotent swing, and revel at my fingers becoming winter branches. What am I to do? Why am I even here? Answers I'm supposed to know, but don't. I'm supposed to know everything--I used to know everything--but I don't. I'll finally say I don't.

I don't know where I'm going and my head hurts.