meridien

this is what it is:
this spark of life
this pulse of blood
speaks of the presence of life
but is has omitted or forgotten
to include a meaning
is this reason
for a god
a family
a drive to succeed
to distract us from every indrawn/exhaled breath
taking us closer to our demise
what we have known and accepted
will become more and more faint
as the days pass us by . . .
this life is to short to live through other's eyes.

i am afraid that i have no clue who i want to be except for this great future plan, which seems to move slower than these scars turn from anger to silvery rememberances. Trying to judge myself by everyone elses standards condems me to a mediocre life because i fall short every time. The only time i am ever happy is when i am be myself, as my sub-consious glosses over all past events. . . i long to live alone and without human interaction. Who i am right now makes me want to retch my insides out and stomp on them.

perhaps we the human race have made this god and this book, it has turned into a self-fulfilling prophocy of the mundane nature of evil unbound and unchecked. . . it is all shit anyway.

i'm fucking sick of trying to feel something, all that's left to do now is gun down every emotion until none are left standing.

i have no idea why i so fiercely protect these ideas from anyone, this mediocracy makes everything seem so unappealing, since they are mine, i must cover my belly and lower my eyes.

why do i bother to lie to anyone ? i cannot even tell the truth to myself.