This is painstakingly long. By all means disregard it if you wish. Call it an epiphany if you will, but whatever it is I just had to get this out.
Sometimes I wonder if I am a horrible person because I enjoy hearing about everyone elses pain. Im a sadomasochist at my best and I find self destruction to be beautiful and charming. While the rest of the world finds themselves jerking off to cum guzzling WHORES, I get my thrills seeking out the scarred, bruised and addicted. Nothing gets me more excited than seeing blood pouring out of the vein. I often have to force myself to realize that I have spent the last hour slamming my wrist against the sharp metal edge of the bed frame, and now that its bruised and bleeding, I should probably stop. Its comforting to know I havent lost all feeling.
In all honesty I would rather jam a steak knife into my eye than attempt to associate with the people around me. There are very few people I love, and for them I would do absolutely anything; but, that is usually where I am at fault because I care too much for people who have no intentions of sharing that compassion or appreciation as much as I love and cherish them. I would give them the world if I could, and for all I care the rest of the human race can go rot in hell. In fact I would find great joy in seeing everyone else suffer. I would love to see their overconfident narcissistic beings raped of all emotion. I would love to see all of their pretentious spoiled asses driven to the point where they would rather slice open their own fucking flesh and bleed to death than live another day. I would love to see every last one of their sick pathetic selves MISERABLE and HOPELESS and DESENSITZED, just as they have left so many others.
I found the vinyl soundtrack to my nightmares slightly sun warped and pressed beneath my memorys requiem, and when I played it the tiny voices of everything I used to accept as true promised that a God I never believed in would come and wash away the scars the past addictions and all the memoirs and all the aborted babies that he never considered to be a part of me. When the truth is that I really murdered our unborn child because it reminded me of him, a fragile universe of milk and ember, so ready to be destroyed and crumble beneath the weight of reckless lives. He wasted everything about me that I thought was priceless, and then cast me away to rot like a used up broken memory. He would have laughed had I told him the truth of the matter, that it was his closest friend that should have been his worst enemy and he was stabbing him in the back and robbing me of everything that matters. But no, instead I was blamed for my inability to relate. As if was my fucking fault that there is no one I can trust. I still don't know who that little piece of me belonged to, but it's dead now. It doesn't matter.
I would give my life and soul if I could go back and take a butchers knife to his skull and prevent everything he fucking put me through. Maybe I wouldnt feel like such a horrible person if I had killed him instead of the baby. Maybe I wouldnt feel like such a horrible person if I wasnt driven to do the things I do simply because he robbed me of every ounce of dignity, innocence, hope, trust, and emotion I ever had.
I can no longer look people in the eyes without feeling an overwhelming sense of self disgust and hatred towards others because I am incapable of being as blissfully ignorant and uncaring as they. I can only wish there was such a thing as Novocain for the soul so I wouldnt have to breathe or feel or think or cry or experience emotion because the only moderately appeasing sensations I have obtained are those of guilt and self loathing.
Im falling apart. Im being ripped to shreds and scattered in the deepest pits of hell and misery and insanity that only the god I dont believe in could muster. These demons I have coined within my tormented intellect are no longer crying for help, I have escalated my distress to a much more urgent and compelling state of necessary address. The narcotic waste I have been consuming at an alarming rate is no longer sufficient to stifle all of my unnoticed attempts at saying
>>please god just fucking love me.<<
No, this is now more of a scream for help than a cry. I have been screaming and crying and breaking everything within reach, waiting for some one else with some remaining ounce of empathy and compassion to come along and tell me that it will be ok, that somebody finally fucking cared. But still Im left here as Ive always been, stuck in that metaphorical limbo of a rock and a hard place that I now see is cold and hollow and empty.
I can barely see, think, or feel, but I still have enough conscious energy to recognize the emotion associated with the tremendous pain being inflicted upon me as the bitter teeth of tragedy sink deeper into me to tear the flesh and break the bone. I still have enough emotion to feel my heart and soul and everything involved with love draining out of me. I wake up from everyday screaming out a prayer from the confinement of my broken bones that usually consists of Fuck you world it hurts to breathe and this body is crying its own crimson tears. Its not ok because no one cares and its not my fucking fault. Im blamed for your lack of compassion, but I seem to be the only one that is still feeling anything at all. This searing pain and brutal torture is all because of you, and yet you denounce me as being heartless and cruel.
If this is love, then I would rather crawl out of this body and die alone and cold and laughing. I would rather peel my flesh off of my soul and surrender it in hopes of gaining a feeling of something other than hate. I would rather wear what little remains of my heart on my sleeve and be attacked by the vultures of humanity until my back is raw and sore and bleeding and my spine is exposed for all of you heartless fucking slobs to rip apart. When it takes so much fucking effort just to be, there is no love involved.
This world is fast collapsing and rapidly forgetting the meaning behind its actions. No one seems to fucking care anymore if anyone else is hurt by their dealings, regardless of their good or bestial intentions. There is no one here to pick me up, dust me off, and do something about the blatant and inevitable fact that the world simply does not care that they are so undeniably cold, and hollow, and empty.
Im officially terrified of dreaming because the only obvious hallucination that can materialize within my comatose state of being is one of love and sincerity and loyalty. This longing for anything human is more realistic than anything that happens to me and I am horrified by the thought of knowing that sort of mutual feeling, of experiencing that at any moment and never being able to recreate it within another. I wake up in cold sweats and screaming, on the verge of tears and I cant sleep because Im more afraid of loving something, of feeling anything besides this incessant throb. Im more afraid of a compassion that doesnt exist than reality. The myth of mutual understanding haunts me to the point where I cannot close my eyes at night without vomiting profusely.
Sometimes I wonder if I am a horrible person because I enjoy hearing about everyone elses pain. Im a sadomasochist at my best and I find self destruction to be beautiful and charming. While the rest of the world finds themselves jerking off to cum guzzling WHORES, I get my thrills seeking out the scarred, bruised and addicted. Nothing gets me more excited than seeing blood pouring out of the vein. I often have to force myself to realize that I have spent the last hour slamming my wrist against the sharp metal edge of the bed frame, and now that its bruised and bleeding, I should probably stop. Its comforting to know I havent lost all feeling.
In all honesty I would rather jam a steak knife into my eye than attempt to associate with the people around me. There are very few people I love, and for them I would do absolutely anything; but, that is usually where I am at fault because I care too much for people who have no intentions of sharing that compassion or appreciation as much as I love and cherish them. I would give them the world if I could, and for all I care the rest of the human race can go rot in hell. In fact I would find great joy in seeing everyone else suffer. I would love to see their overconfident narcissistic beings raped of all emotion. I would love to see all of their pretentious spoiled asses driven to the point where they would rather slice open their own fucking flesh and bleed to death than live another day. I would love to see every last one of their sick pathetic selves MISERABLE and HOPELESS and DESENSITZED, just as they have left so many others.
I found the vinyl soundtrack to my nightmares slightly sun warped and pressed beneath my memorys requiem, and when I played it the tiny voices of everything I used to accept as true promised that a God I never believed in would come and wash away the scars the past addictions and all the memoirs and all the aborted babies that he never considered to be a part of me. When the truth is that I really murdered our unborn child because it reminded me of him, a fragile universe of milk and ember, so ready to be destroyed and crumble beneath the weight of reckless lives. He wasted everything about me that I thought was priceless, and then cast me away to rot like a used up broken memory. He would have laughed had I told him the truth of the matter, that it was his closest friend that should have been his worst enemy and he was stabbing him in the back and robbing me of everything that matters. But no, instead I was blamed for my inability to relate. As if was my fucking fault that there is no one I can trust. I still don't know who that little piece of me belonged to, but it's dead now. It doesn't matter.
I would give my life and soul if I could go back and take a butchers knife to his skull and prevent everything he fucking put me through. Maybe I wouldnt feel like such a horrible person if I had killed him instead of the baby. Maybe I wouldnt feel like such a horrible person if I wasnt driven to do the things I do simply because he robbed me of every ounce of dignity, innocence, hope, trust, and emotion I ever had.
I can no longer look people in the eyes without feeling an overwhelming sense of self disgust and hatred towards others because I am incapable of being as blissfully ignorant and uncaring as they. I can only wish there was such a thing as Novocain for the soul so I wouldnt have to breathe or feel or think or cry or experience emotion because the only moderately appeasing sensations I have obtained are those of guilt and self loathing.
Im falling apart. Im being ripped to shreds and scattered in the deepest pits of hell and misery and insanity that only the god I dont believe in could muster. These demons I have coined within my tormented intellect are no longer crying for help, I have escalated my distress to a much more urgent and compelling state of necessary address. The narcotic waste I have been consuming at an alarming rate is no longer sufficient to stifle all of my unnoticed attempts at saying
>>please god just fucking love me.<<
No, this is now more of a scream for help than a cry. I have been screaming and crying and breaking everything within reach, waiting for some one else with some remaining ounce of empathy and compassion to come along and tell me that it will be ok, that somebody finally fucking cared. But still Im left here as Ive always been, stuck in that metaphorical limbo of a rock and a hard place that I now see is cold and hollow and empty.
I can barely see, think, or feel, but I still have enough conscious energy to recognize the emotion associated with the tremendous pain being inflicted upon me as the bitter teeth of tragedy sink deeper into me to tear the flesh and break the bone. I still have enough emotion to feel my heart and soul and everything involved with love draining out of me. I wake up from everyday screaming out a prayer from the confinement of my broken bones that usually consists of Fuck you world it hurts to breathe and this body is crying its own crimson tears. Its not ok because no one cares and its not my fucking fault. Im blamed for your lack of compassion, but I seem to be the only one that is still feeling anything at all. This searing pain and brutal torture is all because of you, and yet you denounce me as being heartless and cruel.
If this is love, then I would rather crawl out of this body and die alone and cold and laughing. I would rather peel my flesh off of my soul and surrender it in hopes of gaining a feeling of something other than hate. I would rather wear what little remains of my heart on my sleeve and be attacked by the vultures of humanity until my back is raw and sore and bleeding and my spine is exposed for all of you heartless fucking slobs to rip apart. When it takes so much fucking effort just to be, there is no love involved.
This world is fast collapsing and rapidly forgetting the meaning behind its actions. No one seems to fucking care anymore if anyone else is hurt by their dealings, regardless of their good or bestial intentions. There is no one here to pick me up, dust me off, and do something about the blatant and inevitable fact that the world simply does not care that they are so undeniably cold, and hollow, and empty.
Im officially terrified of dreaming because the only obvious hallucination that can materialize within my comatose state of being is one of love and sincerity and loyalty. This longing for anything human is more realistic than anything that happens to me and I am horrified by the thought of knowing that sort of mutual feeling, of experiencing that at any moment and never being able to recreate it within another. I wake up in cold sweats and screaming, on the verge of tears and I cant sleep because Im more afraid of loving something, of feeling anything besides this incessant throb. Im more afraid of a compassion that doesnt exist than reality. The myth of mutual understanding haunts me to the point where I cannot close my eyes at night without vomiting profusely.