Singledom

It's 4:24am. I keep thinking about this hole in my chest. It's like a ball and chain, that I carry around my entire life. I feel everyone has this hole, but they never speak of it. If they would, I think they would find that nothing really fills it in completely. It's like an embodiment of hunger. To want is to die, unfulfilled. So then how does one function? How does anyone continue to live with such a chunk from themselves gaping to the world? I find that it might just always be there, so I want to comfort it, embrace it. I feel many people tend to fill it with connections, the connections of love, and security. To one such as I, I find it incredibly hard to even fathom such a feeling. It is like I am wrong, like I have been blinded to the feeling of loving others. I do not act coldly, if anyone wants help, I always wish to help in any way I could, but I simply do not feel anything when their words hit me. I imagine that others do, they whimper and whine, about their lover's small imperfections, but find love with them nonetheless. They decide to push on, maybe to continue on the adventure of their connection. What's to gain? In this life, we decide we are cursed with absolute freedom. So personally, I decide not to love, and while the hole in my soul, may grow to completely eradicate my love for others, maybe I will learn the true meaning of the cold and bleak universe. Till then, I will let my emotions, and rambles of insecure gestures flow throughout my fingertips.

Shaken

It's 4:53am. I kind of feel like a sham tonight. Like a person who wears a mask, and the mask has become stuck. To the people around me, I feel so alien and wrong. It's like the skin on my bones are not real, like the eyes that see aren't mine. The face I look at in the mirror isn't me, but a facade, who am I? I keep on asking that question. It repeats in my mind like the beating of a fucking drum. Who am I? Am I this person who loves being around others, who melts into their forgotten words of love? Or am I this monstrous being who indulges in flesh being ripped apart? Oh how am I still alive? How I keep asking, how am I really living as a corpse? Who here gleams above others, who here has not feigned emotion to a degree? Show me a proper hero to my villain. Show me the man who is without sin, show me the pure angel of light, so that we may tear into their veins of impurity! Fuck society, and fuck you.

A quiet day

It's 11:38pm. It's earlier than I usually begin writing. I think it's because I have an itch that I need to scratch. Most days I try and think up something I want to write about, I never really let myself go. Now, today it feels like a time that I can, really let go. I think it's because of how I am, that I do things. Things feel so strange to me, like I have a buffer between me and reality. That is why, my numbness feels almost alienating when I am doing my daily duties, at work, and at home. Maybe it is depression, I say. Other times, I think it's simply who I was born to be, completely numb, like a mummified corpse. A corpse that talks to people, as if it had nothing to say. I think that is why people enjoy my company, I have no real personality, they can just plaster whatever they wish I was onto my face and call me that. Sometimes I wish I did not have anything to say, or be, to simply exist and watch as things around me happen. Like a leaf floating in the wind, like the waves crashing upon shore, like a quiet lake. One day, without others, without the feeling of connection that binds me, I will be happy I think. I hope.

Watching

It's currently 4:08am. Tonight, I greet the warm arms of solitude. Tonight, I find myself not slipping, but coldly watching the void. The core of our human meaning, the void. Tonight, I sense the cool breeze of emptiness. The more one looks into the eye of death, of the endless void, one realizes the tragedy of human existence. It's like seeing the entrails of a person come seeping out of their stomachs, the blood plopping on the ground, along with pieces of bone and flesh. It's quite horrifying, but the more you see, the more you understand. The more you understand, the more twisted one feels. It's quite simply, feeling like you've been sheltered from the coldness of winter. There's power in knowledge, but there's a price you must pay for something so intensely important. Curiosity killed the cat, as the saying goes. Along those lines, can one person quantify their experiences of the void? One would scoff at the notion that someone could possibly make sense of such a beautifully terrifying image. I say it is so, because one must try to see, with their voice, with their paint, or their writing. So create it so, beings of selfishness, create.