Don’t be so fucking optimistic.

Chains, these chains. I really am strangling myself with them. I go one way one second, then suddenly I bolt the other, only to get choked regardless. I want to hang. Let me hang. I feel like I’m doing this so damn publicly, right out there where the world can see it, but they only gape or say the all the wrong things to me. I don’t expect them to step up and stop this. I don’t expect consolation. I was a stupid kid once (oh, wait, let’s not get ahead of ourselves), and yeah, at one point I thought that it was possible to accept an offered hand and maybe move onto where this would be emotionally bearable.

I know now that I was wrong. I didn’t need a friend, I needed an enemy. I needed someone to beat me into place, to tear out those pipe-dreams and give me a colder world to look at. It explains my fucked up relationship with myself, at least. All sides against the middle, all fucking propelling me toward doom. I’m waiting for impact. All those times where I sit here and tell myself it isn’t coming? Lies. Fucking lies. It’s coming. There’s no avoiding it. Sooner or later it’s going to come down to the end. It will be me against myself against the world, if you want to romantisize it. We’re going to brawl, and we’re going to look each other in the face, all bloodied and destroyed, and we’re either going to come to an agreement to suffer and pull this pointlessness along until breaking point together, or we’re going to decide to take the other path. The brighter one. 

Oh, and how it is brighter. Like a beacon in this black that I’m crawling to, hands and knees scabbed over, all subservience. Torture me until it makes sense or until I get so jaded by it that I can’t feel it anymore. I am weak and petty and I want to lose myself in this. I want compulsion and confusion and pain and recklessness beyond anyone’s understanding. I want my pursuit of stupidity to blow up in my face and prove something to me, be it reasons for an end or reasons for continuation.

I know that maybe it hasn’t been long enough. Maybe I haven’t hurt enough. Maybe there’s a lot more to come before I’m worthy of being granted an exit. Or maybe I’ll tear the gatekeeper’s throat out and go early. I never was one for waiting for permission. Worthy, there’s an idea. As if I owe this world anything beyond what has already been given so unwillingly….

I bled for you. I bled for this place even when I didn’t believe in it. I beat myself for you. I took pain for you. All those people, I died a hundred times over for, and they never even knew. And it was all my fault. I act like I was valiant, like I did something. Oh, but how that was not the case! I did nothing but stand by stupidly, a monument to inaction! Brave? No, I was the coward. I was terrified of being alone. I took it all on for myself, to prolong the fantasy as long as was possible. I did not really bleed for them…no.  

I bled for me

Selfishness. It’s a start, at least, is it not? How’s that for optimism?

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Gloomy Monday?

Life is nothing but extremes lately. I fall from one end only to find myself at the other, with little explanation for how I got there. I wake up and I am somewhere else, someone else. It’s all blurring together until I can make no sense of it. 

Someone told me the day today. I blinked and said, “What?”, for how could it be that day? It was only a few days ago, wasn’t it? It was just Sunday not that long ago, I’m certain of it. But no, it’s been a week since then. We are back to Sunday. I don’t understand. It must be Wednesday or Thursday. They must be wrong. But Sundays, some people wear a tee shirt to work instead of the button-down uniform, since it is permitted that one day. It had to have been Sunday today. They couldn’t all be wrong, could they? 

I can only wonder as to where the other days went. I did not experience their passing, even if the hours felt as though they did nothing but pause and stretch longer than they were supposed to. I am all wrong, sitting back counting bullets.

And now I can only laugh as I realize the day has now officially turned to Monday. 

Now where did I lose that Sunday? I have to find it, because I think my head went with it.

It’s no use trying to explain. Just give up.

I’ve been in a less guarded mood recently. My constant secrecy has, in a way, gone out the window. I feel like this is my pathetic ‘cry for help’ phase that I’m going to get over, hopefully soon.

I keep dropping hints; one here, one there. To some idiot, so called ‘friend’ on IM, and then a few today to my mother. Her reaction was the most funny, which I’ll get to eventually.

My old friendships have seen a sort of reniassance. That really is the only word that properly describes what has been happening. It’s as though, all of a sudden, at the exact same time, everyone wants to ‘reconnect’ with me and maintain what they believe to be, still existing relationships. Pity they are all so blind. I’m bored, I use them like toys, little pieces of shit to take up all the spare time and give me less of it to stand around contemplating whether or not death is the best option.

So, if it’s not long IM conversations, it’s emails, where I come across sounding normal. How I manage, who knows. Doesn’t matter. But anyway, it is all this faking that is poisoning me. I feel like I am back at my old house going to my old school, trapped with a bunch of people I want nothing more than to get away from. It was fun, at first, to reminisce about old bullshit and laugh, but bitterness takes over, when I remember that it was that life that made me. Here, now, what damage has been done? Nothing but a slow rotting that when I think about it, isn’t half so terrible as living those years all over again.

I would live a thousand of these darknesses, because I can’t bear to glimpse the light anymore. It is filled with a generic, disgusting nostalgia that serves no purpose but to remind me of what it is to be human, to be…in essence, just like everyone else. Blind. Needy. Weak. I don’t want that for myself. If I must live, let it be anything but in that hollow ungenuine world. I won’t go back. I’ll scream, I’ll fight. Because I won’t. No. Never, ever again. I had my moments there, but that place is what has killed me. It started this. I would die in rebellion, protesting, hating, without conversion. They will not have me. I will not have them. That I will ensure. They will go on in their stupidity, and I will not participate.

I am a joke to the world. Something to be laughed at. I am nothing but someone gone insane according to them, and even my own mother doesn’t take me seriously. Like I said, I tried to speak. She says something along the lines of ‘I knew you were going to give me a lecture’. I still tried, even after that, but she does not get it. I told her I have no goals, and all she said was ‘your goal is to own a house’. It was. Once upon a time. Now I just say it so I have something to say, so that instead of creating A SOCIALLY FUCKING AWKWARD SITUATION by saying ‘my goal is to get enough gall to blow my head off’, everyone can go on with their merry fucking lives and pretend that everything is FUCKING PERFECT!

Yes, I wouldn’t want to ruin anyone’s pristine universe, now would I? That would be wrong. To, for once, need someone to listen to me for for five fucking minutes and ask advice, that’s TOO much. I took on everyone’s burdens, I carried them. I held their fucking hands through the pits of hell, and I can’t even have five minutes…. It’s no wonder I keep folding in on myself, disappearing bit by bit. It sounds like I pity myself, but I don’t. I know I haven’t had it as bad as some, I know to some people this is completely inconsquential, but I’ve earned five minutes. I won’t have it though, not ever. No one resipricates. I was the moron who went and helped people and expected something in return, anything. No more though. I can’t remember the last time I offered help to someone without biting their outstretched hands off. Chew, chew, chew.

Being alive is my hell. I can’t be alone here; I’m always surrounded, never to get away. They caged me up. I want solitary confinement.

I’m not working well tonight. I’m somewhere else, trying to decide which is the part that haunts me in my sleep and whispers suicide, and which is the piece that screams back ‘no’ in absolute rage…are they the same thing? I want to separate them, I want two. If we’re not one, then maybe I can think something sane for a little while, just a little while. Then someone will decide something and I won’t have to wait anymore, mindless and robotic. Waking up because it’s required, and going to sleep because I am so sickened and bored with what it is to be alive, to be human. There should be an end to all of this, one I can tie up in a noose and call a day. But it goes, and goes, taking me along with it. Or do I take it along? I’d love to think so. Control is my pathetic little illusion I allow myself, the one I hold close.

The death of one is a tragedy—or is it?

I think I’ve passed some sort of mental tolerance. I have this suspicion that I’m not all well, especially in the head. I don’t mean depression, or numbness even, but just…well, to be quite honest, there may not be any sanity left in this skull of mine. My inhibitions seem to be fading at an alarming rate, and even my anxiety seems to be calming down somewhat. I believe it’s like the calm before the storm….

To snap, it is something I haven’t done in its entirety—been close, but never followed through to completion. But I keep wondering if I just wasn’t attentive enough, that maybe…maybe I missed something. It may have happened already.

I find no tragedy in the individual, no feelings of connection, to me they are just another product of the group. That’s why I’m beginning to understand why it is so easy for the world to completely ignore me, to write me off, and consider me dead.

In psychology it’s mentioned that we often consider people outside our group to be all the same (dare I mention that I have no ‘group’?). Sure, but at the same time, I’m nothing special, I know it, I accept it. There were hundreds, thousands, perhaps millions before me who thought something similar. I am the product of the people around me, the things I was exposed to—that is what created each of us. We are not unique, we are not beautiful, we are but copies, and not even lithographs, but shitty printed out pictures in dull colored ink on crinkled white paper.

I think that in my anonymity I might find rest, even when my ego would wish for some sort of recognition, some sort of validation….

Validation, isn’t that what we all secretly hope for? That some wonderful person will tell us how great and unique we are? That somehow because someone has thought it, it must be true?

I doubt myself more than anyone should be able. Failure after failure has me sickened by the sight of myself. People say you can do things, you can be somebody, but I do not trust the source of those words. They come from the same people who claim that life is wondrous and great, even when all you see on the news are rapes and murder, people who don’t give a flying fuck about anyone but the interesting story, who forget that when there is a massacre, each death has a story.

I pride myself in my complete lack of feeling, my darkest part, my apathy. I see each person as one, and still will shed no tears as I see news reports of person after person dying. I shed no tears for the ones who mean nothing to me. I can barely shed tears for myself. What is there to pity, after all? I am but a fool, and they are but more copies thrown into the raging fire. We all burn….

My end…my finish. Why is it that some days death is the only promise that seems worthwhile? These thoughts, these ways…if only the world could feel them…could break and fall apart like I have. I’ve picked myself up, but there is nothing but the basest of things, the primal, the urge toward complete annihilation, chaos. I tire of straight rows and sorted things, this human way that was developed by the species that is most afraid…. I am not afraid of what is outside the box, the gilded cage, I fear what is inside it, what it could do to me. It has shattered me a thousand times, because I refuse to stop fighting the machine…. I would wage war rather than wave the white flag of surrender. But there is only so much time. And my time…it runs out.

The death of all is just a statistic.

Lonely? Not in this world, not for these people….

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.

Punishment that never ends.

Sometimes I tell myself that it is alright that I want to die, that there is nothing wrong with that. This place is far from wonderful, far from perfect, and in truth it can be close to Hell. If there are levels in Hell, I must be in one of the easier ones. Even so, it’s still Hell, and I am still the person I always was, with no drive, no dreams, no goals. I live out of pure boredom and a sense of false, all-consuming loyalty, nothing more. Every reason I give is just another lie, another strike on my private record.

So many strikes the paper looks black.

I am disgrace. I plague even myself with my own existence. An existence that is taxing even on me. If I am such a burden to myself, it must be twice as worse for the ones who hold me up. On my own I would collapse; a malformed structure that was never meant to stand. I was designed all wrong, and all of my “improvements” have only suceeded in worsening matters.

School draws nearer. I know that my pathetic reasoning is starting to burn from my anger…the rage at being trapped in a cage that is inescapable except for one path. I don’t want this. I never wanted this. I’d take anything over this. I want it to end.

Anxiety eats at sanity
Unwelcome cannibalism of self
Hatred that never stops.

I will never feel normal. There’s never going to be a day where I wake up and it all feels okay. I will never have that day, not even a single one.

I have to say another lie: it makes me stronger.
The torture makes me stronger.
My chosen torture makes me stronger.

Today is not the day to die.