You talk about what happened, but you can never re-create what it was like, or what it felt like. Painful details are suppressed; context is lost; events are elided, often unconsciously, in order to make the inchoate choate.
(So, I will head out alone and hope for the best And we can hang our heads down As we skip the goodbyes And you can tell the world what you want them to hear I've got nothing left to lose my dear, So I'm up for the little white lies But you and I know the reason why I'm gone, and you're still there.)
11:39 PM
THE DRUGS DON'T WORK.
this hurt. it trancends beyond bodily pain.
So doctor, thank you for your prescription of
anarex and pontalon but no thank you.
this profound, indestructible melancholy,
what is it?
this heaviness of heart,
what is it?
this perpetual sadness,
what is it?
It's like you have to fight for very breath,
and tell death to go to hell.
2:23 AM
WHEN IN ANGER, S.P.L.U.R.G.E.
These few weeks haven't been kind. Both my heart and mind seemed to be dragged through the coal fires of his heart. (sometimes my dear, I really don't know what is it you want. I thought you needed someone true, but you changed your mind. or had I failed you?) And school is just plain wearisome. I've lost my drive to study, but after all that happened, is it any wonder? The recent piercings weren't done in vanity. I needed the pain. just so I could feel, something. I hated the alcohol that was being applied. I hated the numbing effect. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted to relish that raw, stinging sensation that delves deep into the bones, that throbs from beyond the bloodlines. If you think this is all very perverse, well then, fuck you. I am a fucking teenage dirtbag and this is how I deal with shit in my life. And no, I don't condone self-mutilation, the ugly scars and penknife cuts only serve to highlight two things-stupidity and the lack of respect for your own body. At least in piercing/tattooing/branding, art is being created. It's different. In all the agony, there's beauty. Without beauty, you're nothing. Now who could love that? Moreover, crying has never been my form of outlet, it just shows weakness. I guess I don't like giving in to my emotions. They're always too much to take. Why break down if all you're going to get is the intensification of the anguish and sadness? A warped theory but logical nonetheless. Yes truth be told I appreciate the very reflex of my muscles to control and hold back my tear ducts. Goodnight.
10:38 PM