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Come Some Other Time, Please.

It's what I say to those nearby when the suffering crosses the line. Because during those rare times, the tears cannot be secured. They fall... And they fall proudly. They ride my cheeks and they soak the blankets. They drench the pillows and they poison my head... They call forward headaches and cramps and exterior pains. It shuts down appetites and locks your happiness so far away, so far, you'd lose hope in ever relocating it sometimes.It leaves you feeling vulnerable.

I feel like an animal sometimes. I have to glimpses over my shoulders for the next predator while all the while, maintain something of a life. Something of a life.... Hm.... What remains of this life? So ghostly.. so foul. So uncertain and biting. There is no security in this home body. So, I have to outwardly mimic some which only falls apart like a house of play blocks that the children play with. As soon as you remove the wrong brick, all that... effort... All that, work and serenity and hope of "it's finally over..." crumbles. It just... crumbles. And every time... I have to pick up my broken masterpiece and seam it back together each and every time.

But why do I do this? It's easier. It's easier to pretend that there is no pain, it's easier to bring the masquerade mask to your face, pull its lace behind your cranium and tie the knot of security. It's better and more efficient to stash away the cold cries of mourning, to escape in black and music. Oh Music. The wind of music seeps in through my ears and the needle ****** of my heart to swirl a tornado inside my mind. It jumbles the disaster. It sweeps and mops the mess up - Or at least scoops it into corners. Although temporary, it helps somewhat. It out-sings misery. The song of dread, finally vanquished. Until music becomes a monster in itself... And music is then even as... hm... reminding.

I sometimes wish I was deaf. I sometimes wish I could go about myself without hearing the remarks of life. All remarks.... Not just the daunting but the good too. Because, the kissing up is tiresome. The kissing up tips the balance of what is good and bad. It makes it difficult to understand. It has me double checking its weaponry. The falseness... it's too alluring. So tempting. If the bandages of others are meant to mend me, not strangle me. I hope it's so. Not another heavy shot of arsenic. I hope it'd be plain gentleness. Just... Just because.

I dislike whining. But I'm writhing. I'n hurting... I'm trapped. I've been lied to... And cheated. But I just... will recuperate again. I will heal willingly. Because I have no choice to. You can do just so many things alone though... Live on, Lone Wolf!

Really, I just want a friend. Is this why I'm hurting...
JeuneCirque JeuneCirque 18-21, F Dec 30, 2012

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