That's annoying. I just spent all this time writing and the computer decides to eat it. Ugh. my Back hurts....
It's like something in the morning, and I'm very very blank. A minute ago, I was laughing my head off with one of closest friends, and now I'm staring into the Void that once contained my soul. Where the hell did it go?
"The sink was bleeding and ejaculating: great." Drawing Blood.
The weirdness of my mind has not died. Oh no love, far from it. It's merely taking a nap, which I so appreciate. I was thinking about dancers get lost in the music. How easy it is to let something fill your body and suddenly you're not you anymore, you're the music and it's pulling you close, twisting you, making you forget you had spine. And in that music, are the answers we've been looking for, the satisfaction of just being. Music is powerful stuff. If done correctly.
I messed a program called Gimp and had fun editing a photo. It's at the top. I might have gone to far with the shading though. Hmm...comments would be much appreciated.
Am I happy with life? Maybe. I'm not dissatisfied with it. But I'm not concentrating on it either. Technically you have to be moving place to place to be wandering and I'm not. I'm living through a computer screen. Okay no. I'm living through the characters in novels. In empty places where the only thing to do is to live once, and you've done it all.
I don't know if I want to post my old blogs here. It feels like I'm cheating time and the experience of presenting myself to people who don't know me well enough to accept me as who I am. Is it a risk I'm willing to take?
Hell. yes.
"fuck"
He had only taking the pills with the thought of that morning keeping him afloat. He had wanted to sleep, willing to do anything to make that happening. He remembered looking at the white bottle, thinking, "What the hell? I could use a good knock out." Took two little pink pills, with a couple sips of water, lay on his bed and sighed. Nothing instantaneous like he wanted. Rolling over, he picked up his last find from the bookstore and read. An hour later, sleep had crept into the space between his mind and the rising dawn and pulled him down so fast he barely had time to close the book. He had only taken the pills that second night because it felt good to be unconscious, so dreamless, so at ease. No fucking headache, so dead to the world that answering the phone was learning process for him. He didn't fight the darkness that pulled him to that void of his mind. It felt good.
Now he had gone and fucked it up. Drinking coffee, so stupid. He hadn't had coffee in months, for the whole reason it screwed with his body, mainly his heart…or so the doctor said. But the cool liquid, sweet with chemicals he couldn't even pronounce was like coming home, and he was eager for that feeling. So he drank, and drank, and drank, till the first kicks of sickness were born. Then he threw up because it was a lot better than feeling like someone had taken a mixer to his organs.
Great. He had wasted five hours of his life…on feeling sick, with only a few minutes spent finding interesting things in a book that saddened him to realize that he had only a few pages left. Closing the book, he picked up something he had found amusing at the library.Hello, Cruel World (101 Atlernatives to Suicide for Teens, Freaks, and other Outlaws) by kate Bornstein, what was in such a strange book anyway he wondered. Grabbing a couple CDs, his cell phone, a handful of Jolly Ranchers and his prized usb drive, he headed downstairs to the den.
He skipped the intro, like skipping instructions, something he really shouldn't have done/ continue to do. He read books to learn about people and he just went ahead and skipped the most crucial part. Fuck it, he whispered in his mind, tell me what to do to stay alive.
"Call a suicide hotline," He stopped. He wasn't suicidal, at least he didn't think so. He had his moments where he sure as hell wanted to climb one of the trees in the backyard and fly for one first and last time in his life, but who didn't? He assumed it was normal to feel such a strong urge in someone's life. He moved on.
"Talk to your pal," No. Hell no. He had already lost three of the six people he had ever trusted in his entire life. And by telling him his most private things, he had only gotten hurt in the end. No. He wanted to keep the three people he still had. Telling them he wanted to hurt himself in ways he that were so warm and comforting, like clawing at his skin with his nails, or giving into the river of his mind that created wonderfully horrible images of people he loved hurting him more than they had already, automatic thinking. So yeah, check that off the list.
"See a doctor, therapist or alternative healer," Tried and failed. According to multiple doctors he was depressed, sleep deprived, and suffering from anxiety, after being recommended to multiple specialists, nothing had happened and nothing would. He didn't really think that would work anyway. He was fucked up. That much was obvious.
He skipped the rest. He held the book in his left hand, and sighed. There was probably nothing in that book to keep him mildly amused. And then skimming the 101 things to do. He found it. "Keywords: IF YOU MUST"
Hell yes, he would. Do what, he smiled, he had no idea. But he was going to make as much noise in the a lackluster world that could spawn such children of self loathing and hellish lives that such a book would need to be created. 101 things, huh?
yep. Title...I Hate Everything About You by Three Days Grace
not really, i love you guys
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