Chuyqwerty
New member
I'm venting some things I just need to let out. Hell it's about time anyway.
I guess you see it kind of sad to be desensitized to everything, but there is no such thing as guessing.
In time, you will still see me digging still, digging away at the voiceless nothing that compensates the remnants of a conscience never truly there, never has been. In order to feel, to know what it is to be alive, to be breathing I have assumed beyond the mask, through the catacombs, in the halls of noiseless, motionless observation, analysis has become my form of breathing. No thought or effort is put into the vigorous analyzation of others thoughts, motions, feelings, it is all too natural to me. I still find myself praying for rain, with the flood gates wide open, standing on mountains with arms outstretched to the sky or laying in the narrowest of valleys face down and drowning. My home is built within the cold withering walls of shame, humility, sincerity, and humbleness, a place all too familiar to a deadening sense, a place of comfort. I know it too well, so very well. It all burned down, by a fire set. An overwhelming cold filled me then, gave away to the endless creaking and ever shifting walls burning still, somewhere.
I'm going to miss him, I surely am.
I find myself trying to turn myself around, to a new beginning, and only find that I've turned around to far back to where I began. Shackled to an unfathomable loneliness that keeps me guessing whether I died years ago, or if I'm trapped in a coma I'm unaware of. Popping two tranquilizers to get to bed, and somehow taking twenty. Collecting empty pill bottles like a crack head stockpiles empty lighters.
Memory loss is funny like that. Unable to remember the past days, and the reasons I said or did anything then. Laying motionless in my bed for ten hours, wordless and expressionless, unable to move fighting the cold that I've since filled myself with. I'm still like a metaphorical child, I guess, a child born without limbs but only the desire to breath, left in a ditch somewhere to die by his own mother. I wonder if the feelings I felt to all the people I ever cared for were felt in return, and I wonder why I am so cold to the ones that were. There is a tapeworm within me, steadily eating me alive fueled by the self seeking alienation I have ignited. I feel so nauseous with what is slumbering within me, vomiting in appraisal and prayer to a porcelain god. Waiting for unread text messages and missed calls I'll never get waiting to fill the boredom and voidless space that seems to make up the time between every moment.
Trying to be vaguely interested with the world around me, only to be the lone wolf or stray dog of a pack I don't belong to that seems to be singling me out by wordless request. Blind and deaf in the world around me, unable to see or communicate I found myself following a path I can't seem to understand fully yet. A path that begs for change, a path that wants to start things all over again. It's strange, I feel a guilt for things I have yet to do. I find myself trying to open myself to others only to be a form of miscommunication, and show the skin underneath in a different way than intended, the more I try to open myself to the world, the more I push it away. It's very unsettling, but I like to think that everyone's like this. Somehow. Someone once said that I was a cancer, and I'm starting to see it now. Not by choice or desire, but a need for survival. They way I can shape and mold someone else to my needs, and unknowing manipulation of others, is something I'm beginning to realize, a strange dark advantage, a gifted curse. It is something I wish to do without.
If there is to be a better place after we all are to die, a place of peace and harmony, I will be buried up to my neck in dirt staring up at it.
I guess you see it kind of sad to be desensitized to everything, but there is no such thing as guessing.
In time, you will still see me digging still, digging away at the voiceless nothing that compensates the remnants of a conscience never truly there, never has been. In order to feel, to know what it is to be alive, to be breathing I have assumed beyond the mask, through the catacombs, in the halls of noiseless, motionless observation, analysis has become my form of breathing. No thought or effort is put into the vigorous analyzation of others thoughts, motions, feelings, it is all too natural to me. I still find myself praying for rain, with the flood gates wide open, standing on mountains with arms outstretched to the sky or laying in the narrowest of valleys face down and drowning. My home is built within the cold withering walls of shame, humility, sincerity, and humbleness, a place all too familiar to a deadening sense, a place of comfort. I know it too well, so very well. It all burned down, by a fire set. An overwhelming cold filled me then, gave away to the endless creaking and ever shifting walls burning still, somewhere.
I'm going to miss him, I surely am.
I find myself trying to turn myself around, to a new beginning, and only find that I've turned around to far back to where I began. Shackled to an unfathomable loneliness that keeps me guessing whether I died years ago, or if I'm trapped in a coma I'm unaware of. Popping two tranquilizers to get to bed, and somehow taking twenty. Collecting empty pill bottles like a crack head stockpiles empty lighters.
Memory loss is funny like that. Unable to remember the past days, and the reasons I said or did anything then. Laying motionless in my bed for ten hours, wordless and expressionless, unable to move fighting the cold that I've since filled myself with. I'm still like a metaphorical child, I guess, a child born without limbs but only the desire to breath, left in a ditch somewhere to die by his own mother. I wonder if the feelings I felt to all the people I ever cared for were felt in return, and I wonder why I am so cold to the ones that were. There is a tapeworm within me, steadily eating me alive fueled by the self seeking alienation I have ignited. I feel so nauseous with what is slumbering within me, vomiting in appraisal and prayer to a porcelain god. Waiting for unread text messages and missed calls I'll never get waiting to fill the boredom and voidless space that seems to make up the time between every moment.
Trying to be vaguely interested with the world around me, only to be the lone wolf or stray dog of a pack I don't belong to that seems to be singling me out by wordless request. Blind and deaf in the world around me, unable to see or communicate I found myself following a path I can't seem to understand fully yet. A path that begs for change, a path that wants to start things all over again. It's strange, I feel a guilt for things I have yet to do. I find myself trying to open myself to others only to be a form of miscommunication, and show the skin underneath in a different way than intended, the more I try to open myself to the world, the more I push it away. It's very unsettling, but I like to think that everyone's like this. Somehow. Someone once said that I was a cancer, and I'm starting to see it now. Not by choice or desire, but a need for survival. They way I can shape and mold someone else to my needs, and unknowing manipulation of others, is something I'm beginning to realize, a strange dark advantage, a gifted curse. It is something I wish to do without.
If there is to be a better place after we all are to die, a place of peace and harmony, I will be buried up to my neck in dirt staring up at it.