I feel like the living dead sometimes. It’s as though I’ve been walking around so long without any higher emotions, that normal needs have ceased applying to me altogether. I suppose it could be the misanthropy, the solipsism, or just my overall bitter attitude. But I won’t blame those things, not when they have been the only reasons I haven’t taken a gun to my head yet, or a knife to my chest.
I’ve been thinking about knives a lot more lately. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to actually feel the pain, watch the blood…. It’s a much more interesting form of suicide, and not so…dull as just blowing brains out of my skull in a glob of tissue and bone. I wouldn’t get to see that, which somehow makes it…less satisfying.
Late nights of crying isn’t helping anything. I really no longer see any reason for tears; nothing can shed true sorrow, it stays forever, like an ink stain. You can’t wash such things away with water. Water does not purify, it pollutes, kills. It is just one more bland, useless action of the human body, like smiling. Stop fucking smiling.
I try to convince myself that I don’t need anyone, and in a sense, it is true. I don’t need anyone. Having other people near me will do nothing but slow the process that’s already started, the transformation that can’t be stopped. There is nothing that can turn the mush of a caterpillar inside its chrysalis back in a caterpillar; it’s either butterfly or nothing at all. Sometimes the process goes wrong…that caterpillar that was so hopeful never makes it past the liquid stage and just dies instead, all in vain. Some mistake that can’t be fixed or made better.
I lay awake in a tangle of sheets every night trying to remember why I even bother. I loathe the thought of being involved with anyone, the strings that would be invisibly attached…. But at the same time I feel this heavy weight in my chest with the knowledge that I will never be able to openly relate with anyone in the way I would like to. No one could ever accept what I am, what I could be. No one knows that side of me, because that’s where the monster rests. It’s the monster’s domain, not mine, yet we dwell in it together sometimes, and it placates me with whispers that none of the human things really matter. The truth is, I will only ever belong to myself. I am the only one who will never fear that side of me, the only one who embraces it for all that it is, takes it without question….
I speak of nothing, yet of everything. There are so many words I want to say that instinct tells me cannot be said. I risk exposure by telling the truth. I won’t even write it in my journal, the one that’s sits on the shelf…. I won’t admit it out loud, for fear of being heard…. I want to purge myself of the poison, yet I know that the poison has to stay, or I’ll never have another chance…another opportunity to die by my own hand rather than by the laws of the universe. It has to be done, it has to be endured.
People will not make me happy, that is the sad truth. The one thing that makes life ‘livable’ to other people is the thing that’s destroying me. I need to be alone, completely, irreversibly so. I need to lose myself in selfishness, so that I can finally be okay…. No pangs of loneliness will drive me to go to others, no matter what the situation. People mean exposure. People inspire nothing but hate from me, they make me wish even less to be alive.
The world says, “People make life good”, and really, I know now that that is the only reason I feel loneliness on those rare occasions. It has been dictated to me from birth, just like it was dictated to everybody else. All part of an elaborate plot to keep the collective together rather than allowing it to break off into separate parts…. But I am a separate part, have always been. That is why people bring nothing but pain. I am a different design, one that feeds on survival, pleasure and pain. I am humanity at its most primal, which is why this world hurts so much, why existence is so futile and meaningless to me. I am not free. I am not where I am supposed to be. I am the lone wolf that struggles on its own instead of bearing the position of the lowest in the pack…. I run from responsibility because it will tie me to this world, a place I never wanted to be.
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Sometimes I try to rationalize why I’ve fallen apart and become undone. Telling myself it’s temporary and will be silenced with sleep or with a distraction, only to have it crash back in on me later, sooner and sooner each time. There’s a point where the whole cycle stops, of rising and falling, and you see that remaining low is rather better than having to rise ever again. You’d rather stay at the lowest point-mentally and emotionally-rather than have something good happen and be snatched from you, sending you even further below than you’re at now.
Disregard that; there is a whole image I have in my mind that I keep to understand life and my part in it better. I can’t help. I can only say that I am sorry. That I understand, or that I try my hardest to understand. Isolation has truly created a stale creature out of me.
‘I run from responsibility because it will tie me to this world, a place I never wanted to be.’
Exactly what I have been trying to fight back for years now….getting sucked into what will not suite who I am, and who I thought I would turn out to be.
An outsider might say we don’t help each other very much. We both clearly have gone through and are still dealing with depression, hopelessness and deep anger, among other serious things. Neither of us can jump into the others life and fix everything that is wrong and unfair. And ultimately, as much as it hurts me to say, neither of us can save the other from themselves. I wish I could. Whatever Gods have ever listened, they know I wish I could be more than just words and a distant thought to you (or anyone for that matter). It may seem as if it happens a lot, but when I am praying to break apart, you and all you’ve helped me through comes to mind. I convince myself it wouldn’t be right to just throw that away. It may sound as if I am so ungrateful for my own mother and family by suggesting that even the thought of them wouldn’t keep me from getting rid of myself, but I am only being honest. It’s gone beyond how they would feel; I am too strained to care anymore. But even though we apparently are very far apart and have never met personally, you are still important to me. I talk to no one else so freely, I feel accepted and a friend to and for no one else. I am very sorry if you ever feel too much pressure or too burdened by me and my thoughts.
This world is too cold, and I don’t deserve anything from it, especially since I self-sabotage so easily and am afraid of taking risks. Afraid of help and afraid of happiness….I’m no help, so I’ll end it here. Keep breathing. I tell myself that a lot, for a number of reasons (punishment, more pain, hope, who knows…)
People like you and I are not meant for this world, even though we have common ground we will never belong together. That is the fundamental design of the others; seek out similarities, bond, strengthen, support, delude, live.
Sometimes I can see into the future, I see myself alive and aging alone. The strange one people are curious about but avoid, because if they make an effort to approach me they might be strange by association.
“People will not make me happy, that is the sad truth”
No, that is the beautiful truth. By acknowledging that you can distance yourself from life, from their petty morals and beliefs. Their insipid being forged by emotions that let their heart overrun their heads.
You can chose to be great or be nothing.
We are different, we do not have to wallow in our emptiness and feel grief for a life we never belong to in the first place, but instead we can continue living feeling each day as though a part of us has died anew and this feeling will propell us to new places, dark parts of the human psyche that will reveal this world in ways people seldom see.
Grief, emptiness and being forlorn is a part of us, but it does not have to rule us.
There is beauty in the finality and frailty that accompanes death, but why should we submit ourselves to that when we can observe it in life and slowly court it, until the time when death caresses us and we go on to share with others the release we anticipated for so long.