The truth comes out.

So it really is true: the world is full of needy people who believe that love is going to skyrocket them to happiness. How charming. How weak.

I am sort of consumed by hate right now, so I’m sure my words will be particularly bitter. But I am so disgusted by this place, by their values. They always try to pawn them off onto me, to break me, to drag me into their sick little hole of co-dependence where they rot, clinging to one another like a bunch of fucking children.

Is this what people are? Is this what I should come to expect? They are all drowning, slowly, painfully, and I am but watching. There is solace in this, even if it pains me sometimes, even if being the most misunderstood makes me seem petty and stupid in their eyes. For when did I ever agree with them?

I think I have hit something new, finally. And it was an idiot that brought it to my attention. So thank you, idiot, for giving me some material to manipulate and chew on for awhile…. I was getting sick of being so numb.

Happiness, goodness, benevolence, be damned. And most of all, I hope love burns. Stick to your lies, I’ll stick to what lies beneath them….

Paranoia and moments of panic.

I keep having these thoughts of deleting everything and running away from it. Not just here, but everywhere. Like maybe if I cut of the last few veins I’ll finish bleeding to death and it will all be over. I feel like this stupid blog and my shitty attempts at writing are basically the last things I have left to really obsess over. They kind of keep me going in a way.

There is a secret part of me that wants to be remembered, but I know how ridiculous that is, how pointless. I don’t even like people, so what purpose is there in being remembered by them? They have no respect for me, and I have even less for them. I think that there are human pieces beneath this monster, and those are what make me so fucking uncertain all of the time.

I have these times too, where I freak out. I keep imagining that someone is going to figure out who this blog belongs to, one of those long lost people. I admit I haven’t been the best at covering my tracks. There are connections everywhere, and to me that is frightening. It sounds unfounded, but if you lived my life…it is full of so-called ‘impossible’ things happening. Everyone says, ‘oh, don’t worry about it, things will work out’, yet for some disgusting, unfathomable reason, they rarely do. Sounds like a perspective thing, but trust me, it isn’t. Even my optimistic mother admits that as a family we are on the verge of being cursed.

It’s as though the world has something against each of us. Around every turn seems to be a bottomless pit, so I’ve learned, as a tool of survival, to expect it to be there. Now I look like a pessimist, when in fact I’m just a psychotic realist who knows that the chances of things going right are only increased if I take to pounding the world into submission with my fist. Otherwise, nothing works out. I have to want it, just like the stupid driving license. If I don’t keep vigilant, like a sandcastle, it just falls apart. It has me high-strung, nearly throwing off my own sanity.

I keep thinking I’m going to die and/or kill myself, and this stupid eyesore of a blog is still going to be here. Along with everything else. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, the world finding out all my dirty little secrets? That underneath this exterior of ‘perfect’ is nothing but a sniveling, cowering misanthrope that wants to slink away and die of unnatural causes?

The panic was yesterday. Finally I calmed myself down enough to lay down, where I forced myself into a deep sleep. I had dark dreams in dreary rooms in filthy houses that I’d much rather forget. There are nightmares wherever I go, both awake and asleep. And I know, somewhere inside this stubborn person, that I have no one to blame but myself. I am the cause of all of this. I am alive, and so it must be. Both consciously and subconsciously, I hate myself. And every damn chance I get, I keep telling myself that, beating it into my head. I am the cause of every problem, of every flaw. It is me who makes this unliveable.

A life walking backwards, never forwards….

Why is it that nothing seems to get better? I wait, wait, wait some more, yet it just gets worse and worse. Each change I make is a step backwards, never forwards as it had looked upon first glance. So many damn mistakes that I just can’t fix, so broken that the pieces no longer fit….

I won’t lie; it hurts to be this way, at least during the times I feel it. I’ve lost myself in writing, but it doesn’t matter, because it changes nothing, improves nothing…. When I stop typing I’m back to my life. It doesn’t just disappear or fade away, it’s always there, like a perpetual nightmare haunting me. I want out. There are only a handleful of words that bring feeling from me:

Suicide.
Death.
Useless.
Hateful.
Numb.
Destructive.
End.
Finish.
Anger.
Wrath
And my absolute favorite, Martyr.

There is not one word that can describe this hell in its entirety; it takes many. But it is a black hole of nothingness that is bringing me down, killing me. And in the end…I don’t want to be saved. I want anything but to be saved. I want to die, and I want everyone to shut the fuck up and just let me do it. I want the voices to stop, I want the loyalty to die out. I want everyone, for one brief instant, to realize that I am the liar. I am the fake human being that was pretending all this time, feigning emotions I didn’t have, smiling when there wasn’t a fucking goddamned thing in this shit hole to smile about.

Most of all, what I want…out of everything, out of all of this bullshit…. Is just to stop. To end. To be over. There was never anything here to begin with, and I live on for false purposes because I can’t sever that monster that wants to rape it all and break it piece by piece…. I want to fall. I want a bullet in the head more than I want breakfast.

Yet I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’ll wake up alive tommorrow, still breathing, still hating it. Still going on as the perfect liar…so fucking perfect that no one even knows.

Eternal Darkness

I just woke up about ten minutes ago (keep in mind it’s 4:00 in the afternoon…). I’m guessing it’s the depression that’s causing me to sleep so much and just feel perpetually exhausted no matter how much sleep I actually get. When I wake up I don’t feel…rested. I sleep so long that I can’t discern the time anymore when I wake; I’ve started having to keep a clock by my bed.

The moon is bright some nights. It’s as though someone is shining a light in through my window, and it makes it difficult to fall to sleep. As a kid I used to sleep with the light on, I did it for years, but now I’ve resigned myself to the fact that if there is any scary monster lurking about in my room, then I’ll just have to get out of bed and stab it with some sharp, pointy object, because I fucking love the darkness. When it’s black like a shadow, no one can see you properly, and every movement has to be studied. It’s quiet in the dark, and even if there are people there, I can’t see them….

I think I wrote about it awhile ago—at the beginning of summer—that I covered over my windows with dark sheets. Now even the moon can’t bother me, and the sun is more or less forgotten even at its highest in the afternoon. It has no hold on me, except at sunset. I have to leave the house before it gets too low, or else I’ll be out in the forest in the black. I would love to walk there at night…but every time I stay to long I see the beams of headlights and realize that my parents came searching for me….

I don’t really believe that people care anymore. If they do, then to me that signifies their own weaknesses, their own shortcomings. But the fact is, that caring never lasts forever. There have been so many people that I used to talk to, both friends from school or friends on the internet that just…stopped talking. I accept the fact that every relationship is only temporary, and because of that there is hardly reason to pursue such things. I always spent years on my friendships; perhaps it’s my stupidity. I believed that my own feelings were reciprocated, when they never actually were.

Every part of my life has been consumed by my own hate. I’ve let it be so, but at the same time I feel that the world has given me no alternate path. I drown in my own choice, this decision that everyone tells me isn’t possible. Yet…why do I like it so much?

Life without people makes for a world that’s truly free.

I take the blame. I’ll hold you up when you can’t stand.

I’m so used to fighting, so scarred by it, that it is a shock to me when a person opens a door for me, or lets me go ahead of them in line. Honestly, it makes me want to cry. Somebody cares, really? There are people that care? The world provided the environment, my parents the genetics…. But I was the one who chose to be this way. I’m the one obsessed with control, with my own sadism…. I encourage it in myself because I know it is one of the few things that convinces me that I can keep breathing, that I will. I laugh at everyone’s pain, I even laugh at my own. It’s funny now, because I know it is just another way for the world to break me further…. To laugh at me and my failings. But I’ll laugh harder, all because I know that no matter what…they lose. I’ll be the one standing over them in their troubles and grinning at how they try and try…and fail.

I’m the one who stood the strongest out of everyone when the shit hit the fan. I was the fifteen year old kid who took it all, when everyone else crumbled and fell to my feet. They came to me for comfort and attention when I was the damn kid. I was the one who needed comfort the most, but instead I took the burden that never should have been mine…. I grew up, which is more than I can say for anybody else. I underestimate myself, I see that now. I did a lot…a lot more than I ever dreamed I was capable of. I always thought I was the weak, pathetic one, but it’s all coming back to me now. How I was the one holding it all together, straining under the pressure, but blatantly refusing to give even when the people I thought were so much better than me broke down and cried like children.

I cried the first two days…I forced it. I had to grieve even if I didn’t feel as though I needed it. I screamed. Yelled. Panicked. Cursed the day I was born. Cursed the God I used to believe in. I screamed myself hoarse. Then it happened…calm. Nothing. I had thought I had known what numbness was, but I had previously only experienced a taste. What I felt then was beyond anything…beyond myself, beyond reasoning, beyond loyalty, beyond love. It gave me permission to forget those things. It told me it was okay. The hate, the anger, it was okay to feel that way. I didn’t have to be ashamed or disgusted by it. Everyone else could cry and grieve, but I knew that I no longer had to pretend something I didn’t feel. The crying? It had been for myself. That was the first time I died. It was necessary, but no longer. I was beyond human, and I didn’t have to feel those things ever again….

My dad recently confessed to me that he was a bit frightened by my reaction. My anger. I was seething. Have you ever felt all-consuming hate and been able to control it? I don’t know how I did…layers of my numbness and will, I suspect. I like to call it the “beast” or “monster”, because it really is. It’s animal…more than fucking, more than pain, more than anything: anger. It’s a urge toward death as well as life, and it can bring either depending on the situation.

Don’t ask me why I speak of the past; I don’t know myself. It plagues me sometimes…. And lately, I’ve gotten a little more respect for myself looking back at it. Perhaps I am not so terrible as I thought. Maybe I don’t completely deserve to die, just…partially. Haha.

Bad and guilty or indulgent and carefree? Maybe just…stupid.

If you were expecting me to confess something…better look elsewhere. Draw what you will from it; it makes little difference to me whether your assumptions are correct or…faulty. And yes, I’m aware that my poetry is far from good, but honestly…who gives a fuck. I have to write the crap down somewhere.

So many temptations, so little time….
Indulgence or compulsion, it’s damn hard to tell
I won’t concern myself, but I won’t be a fool
Ignorance is not truly bliss
I’ve done things that cannot be undone
But I don’t regret
Sins aren’t so terrible; indulge in them while you can
I say to goddamned hell with the rest
You’re going to die worthless anyway.
————————————

Mostly, thoughts are just stupidity not spoken aloud
Brainless assumptions, meaningless words abound
The world of waste, that is the human brain
Luckily intelligence cannot be feigned
Your questions are foolish, your conclusions…highly debatable
Meaning: of comprehensive thought you are not at all able….

Hate never stops; it lives forever in dark souls

I’m just going to say it, I don’t care.

I try not to be pessimistic, I really do. Yes, if some daring person went back and read my older entries it would be quite the condradiction, but that is my secret. This place is the purging ground. This is the place where bad, harmful thoughts come to rest…or at least the ones I’m willing to discuss publicly (even the anonymity isn’t enough to “breach” the brain, so to speak). This is a small ripple on the surface of a deep, cool pond. Sometimes I don’t even know what’s at the bottom. But it doesn’t matter; those are things that cannot be fought, they come with time, not rage. In life I view myself as a realist. I see what is, not some petty painted picture designed to keep the pill-popping wives and their executive husbands sane. I don’t need sanity to justify my existence, I simply am. But here…here there is nothing but anger.

Sanity and insanity have no place in my head. Life has become my carefully constructed lie. I feign what I don’t feel. I build up personas, I wear my masks. And for what? For acceptance? Or is it my defence mechanism? My shield that protects me from some unknown horror? Am I scared of being what I am here in real life?

I hate pretending to care. I hate getting up every morning when there is no reason to back the action even slightly. I hate that I don’t have the smallest inclination to finish my homework that’s due tomorrow. I hate the fact that it’s 11:40 and if I don’t go to bed soon I’ll be groggy all day tomorrow…I hate that my fucking life is bullshit, and that it never seems to want to end. I hate that when I close my eyes the horrors are sometimes worse than when I’m awake. I hate that I can’t do what I want to do…that I always hold back. I hate that all I think about is death, sex, and consuming large quanitities of chocolate (which by the way is NEVER in the cupboard..instead I just long for chocolate and grab it by the handful on the rare occasions I am actually in a store). What I hate the most is that I can’t stop being numb, I can’t make it go away. I haven’t had a day without some problem in my head in so long that I’m beginning to wonder if I ever really did feel normal.

Perhaps it was all a dream, a fantasy that somehow managed to crawl out of my decayed mind and into a pleasant daydream.