I am writing these words in hopes that they will infiltrate this wretched feeling inside me and put it into a computer program and rid me of this bullshit forever. Just like I have done countless times before. Just like I will do a million times again, for sure. I remember when I wanted to become a writer, a poet, someone worthy of praise, someone whose words people would read and find some comfort. Bullshit. I just wanted to find some comfort myself, a comfort that only came half-assed and with an expiration date. Truth is, I've never been a writer, I never had anything important to offer. I am not saying that I don't have it in me. I certainly do. I have rivers flowing inside me, drowning every single one of my vital organs in this black gooey liquid that resembles the juices of a cancerous tumor but is not quite it. If you've ever felt like me you know exactly what I am referring to. It may start one day with a hint of despair, anger or sorrow and with a phenomenally life twisting thought that leeches onto your brain like the absolute worst kind of parasite. Or maybe it is your heart, I don't know. They both start hurting and pulsing and twitching in their pockets for some relief. The way it gets in your system is through your mouth, one damned day when you felt the tears gathering in your eyes and you took a deep, deep breath in hopes you would stop them from manifesting. You breathed in all the anguish and dirt of your surroundings and you let it all in. Good job. No one can blame you though. You only did what seemed sensible at the time. You decided to do this on your own, maybe because you are the hard headed mule that we all know you are, maybe because no one else was there. One way or another, you let it in, and going back is a big no-can't-do. Don't kid yourself and think that I am referring to something as mundane and cliche as depression or bad vibes or demons or whatever the **** you call it where you come from. I am referring to the poisonous debris of the universe, going right down your larynx, choking you half to death every night you're alone, every single time you're in a crowded room and feel like you're in the middle of the desert, grasping for a helping hand. Only no one is there. Because truth is, no one is ever there. No matter what they tell you, no matter how hard they try to help you and no matter how sincere their intentions are, it all comes down to you. Just you, and the cigarette between your lips, the drink in your hand, the needles or razors or knives or flames against your skin. Whatever messed up thing we can come up with to kill the feeling, or ourselves, whichever comes first. There was a time I thought I was past all that, I was saved and clean and free and ******* happy. Bullshit. I'm back in the same place, the same room it started, countless years later. Only this time I can't even cry. Or yell. Or cut. Or do anything. Because now I have to pretend that I am a perfectly functioning individual, simply because so many people expect me to be the exact opposite. But god knows I think about it everyday. It's become a part of my physiology and sometimes, and I'm not proud of that, but sometimes I am too scared to let it go, because without it, what's left of me? Because really, you get rid of something as all consuming as this and then what? You're left with your broken skin and lonely bones and glassy eyes and washed out organs. Twisted memories, migraine-inducing regrets and the ruins of your sad, pathetic, distasteful
passage through life. No thanks. And to think I genuinely believed I had my life on point a few months ago. I am just another cliche in a cheap book of sad stories. I am not the special snowflake that I was raised to believe I was. And that hurts more than anything else.
medousa medousa
22-25, F
Aug 26, 2014