exhausted

meant focus

ti do do i must focus my heart rate

and it’s fast and scsry

but when it’s not i can’t focus or think or keep my eyes open b.b.  why would people enjoy this? and i feel more alone than jduskbrjisbweekend. wow! i wrote gibberish. this sucks drys suck!

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pain is boring. not beautiful.

i am so tired of the fascination with pain and sorrow and disgust. your blood is not beautiful and your mental illness is not what makes you interesting and your self loathing is pathetic as it radiates to those around you. your death is nothing to be relished in. it is devastating and you deserve to be surrounded by those who don’t encourage your juvenile obsession with pain. what happened to your reawakening? what happened to your life? when did we lose you again?

 

talked to mom today. it was

good. i felt empty and full because as i poured myself out into her shoes, my soul dripping like children’s glue from her sole.

and i am not my brightest right now but even through this blanket of desensitization i am able to think and i am able to feel relief.

awareness is devilish. but it is glory. and i will choose  i focus on beauty again.

because i am increasingly aware of the patheticness of death. of giving yourself up to the simplicity of decomposition. of surrender, of victimhood.

because i am far stronger than my pain and i have no more time to waste away as i watch others beat upon my limp body.

i will continue to treat people with the love and appreciation i know everyone deserves but i won’t expect the same back. i accept who they are and i accept who i am.

one day i may find someone who cares as much as i do, who shares it with honesty and boundless passion. but i haven’t yet. there seems to be nobody who allows me in as deep as i allow them.

and it’s hard being in love with someone who doesn’t feel the same way and it’s hard having the lifelong loneliness you’ve felt finally validated and it’s hard holding people up who insist on stabbing themselves in the gut and collapsing into a heap of bust open entrails and bone shards. but it’s beautiful, too. it’s who i am today and tomorrow and maybe it won’t be in a week or so but my beauty is eternal. i hope one day they will see that their beauty is eternal, too.

the cruel irony of masquerade

why do we don masks of beauty, of purity?

when did we decide to suck the vividity out of the seeping gash?

and how did we become convinced that this mask, this falsehood, would grant us solace from ourselves?

and as i pore over my mistakes with the fascination of an anthropologist on the verge of a great discovery, i am slapped with the realization that i have created a paradox within my relationships.

what did i expect to come from this? i constructed it myself, my tears, my light. i feel brilliant for seeing my own hand.

impermeable vulnerability. you cannot touch me and i am empowered yet devastated. i have successfully completed stitching the veil of mystery around me, and it’s my greatest accomplishment yet. it is enchanting intriguing loveable calm comforting obsessive. you cannot figure it out, it changes so quickly, from a rich plum to a pale yellow. the patterns dance and swirl in your eyes and your mind. distracting you, engaging you. and you are so fascinated by the music of it all and the quest for discovery that you cannot see me. maybe you don’t want to. maybe i didn’t want you do.

the jester under the cloak is catatonic from the realization that you fell in love with the art, not the man.

self-centric one

analyzing,
crafting my thoughts as i write.
as i compare subject matters for what i’ve written i’m disappointed.
always thought writing overcame the barrier.
it is instinctual, subconscious, to be conscious when i write of myself.
there is a disconnect between my love for others
and my love for myself.
i am extremely careful with anything i attach myself to.
myself myself myself. it’s difficult to write that word.
be it school writing or self-analysis or advice or creations
a subpar output comes from a subpar being.
everything is representative of my quality.
and maybe maybe if something i do is appreciated
or deemed useful
it will translate to me.
and maybe i will consider myself.
the ferocious boredom of living alongside myself
leads me to resort to academic lexicon
an attempt to step outside of myself
and see me as something worthy of analysis
of notice.

11/20

it would be nice to speak to someone right now
ive found myself in a rare mood where i could talk and talk for hours and never stop. i don’t get like that much anymore.
i think the only person i speak to with reckless abandon is mom. and i think a part of it is unconditional love. and another is her willingness to try and listen. and another is knowing she just can’t understand.
and she’s told me herself all of this and it’s a comfort i haven’t allowed myself to feel with anyone else.
it is incredibly relieving to spill the contents of your mind, discombobulated and sporadic and staccato and ugly and beautiful and stupid and wise and know that even all of the love and willingness in the world isn’t enough.
it’s validating.
it plays into my damaging delusion where i feel so so so lovely and safe.
the serge of power from isolation.
“i am not above and i am not below but i am separate” i loved to think.
i would dream of it and dance to it and boast of it through my glare.
but it’s become tiresome and elementary and i think maybe a yearning i’ve long since buried has emerged and i would do anything to speak and let someone hear.
but that is now and i know in a second this will be gone and i will be sealed shut by my fear of incompetency (averageness) again.

searching for a sentence in a heap of letters

writing is my home
and when i am at a loss for words
blocked by passion or muffled by apathy
there is an odd feeling of weightlessness
a subtle churning of my insides.
like right before a rollercoaster or a first kiss.
like dorothy, ripped from her home by destruction and brought into the enchantment of abandon.
the elation of freedom
language is a hinderance but at least it’s something
no other mode of expression has been able to translate my thoughts so directly yet with a collected, compressed literacy.
and the detachment from the only thing that keeps my feet planted solidly is magnificent
and i feel like a sharp clipping rush of wind that upturns tables and frowns.
and at times i feel delusional, but never so much that i don’t know how to protect myself from judgement and hurt.
and i stifle my delusions so as not to lose myself within them.
i am grateful every day for this ability.
to keep my home while exploring the world.
sometimes i think my head or my chest or my hands may explode.
i get so frustrated with the lack of communication between my thoughts and my brain.
ridiculous yet apt.
my head used to feel so full that i couldn’t think. i would be overcome by it, a victim to my own excitement.
i’ve learned to manage, but there are still periods of an unmanageable cacophony of opposing voices.
no words will ever be able to convey my thoughts and i am irrevocably saddened by this. i would give anything to assemble the disjointed moments that flit in and out of my mind into one moment of cohesion.
i would like a symphony for once, a novel over a poem, a lifetime over an instant.