Code

It's 4:21am. There must be something wrong in my coding. Something unfamiliar, something foreign. I keep believing that one of these days I will change, but I keep being let down. Let down in  a sense, that one would be so intensely normal, to be so different that normal life would seem like a dream. This time, I think, as my day begins. This time, I will be different. I look along the lines of difference, and my eyes begin to shade to grey. The dullness of everyday life, it's almost like the weight of it is so immense, that I crumble every time I try. I like to pinch myself, yes with gore and violence, to feel that little shock to breathe life into my soul. It's not enough. It's never enough, moreover, this empty hole that I would like to fill stems from a hole that is ingrained in our very nature as humans. We, who like to protest against such an overbearing and cruel universe, yelling at the cosmos. It cares not, because it is unpredictable and chaotic. Sometimes, it is so hard to continue living. To continue yelling, at this being, sometimes I feel my legs begin to buckle, and my throat begins to feel sore. Those are the times, people like to find some sort of connection, and bring it to light, to make them feel less alone, friendships, family, loved ones. For us, who have lost such feelings, it can only be gained through the sheer will of survival, to speak. To speak, and realize our anger, our hatred, to focus on the legacy we wish to leave humanity. To leave them with not a whimper, or a gasping for life, but a solid and loud," fuck you".

Slumber

It's 10:43pm. Tonight I am lucid, aware of the things around me. Most days, I tend to be careless like a whore dragged around the corner for a quick fuck. Most of the time I am unfeeling, so I simply go wherever the wind takes me. These moments though, I feel like I can see, and the fog dissipates. Whenever it fades, I see the truly sad and desperate life people lead, it hurts me so much. I feel like a mountain weighs on my shoulders, like I cannot breathe anymore. So I guide my eyes to the floor, and embrace the emotion of it. Too much of it, I think would kill me. Too much emotion, too much of the sadness or tragedy. It's strange to think of this tiredness, because I think that I would love the sweet release of sleep, but I know it does not fill me completely. Tomorrow morning, I will wake and find myself longing for more sleep, knowing there will never be enough of it, because the darkness of sleep is as close to death as I would like to be. Almost like I am brushing it, kissing it softly.

Mind is a prison

It's 5:03am. I was listening to Alec Benjamin's new song "mind is a prison". The lyrics say how afraid he is of his own thoughts, how he can never escape, yet he won't give up hope. The very grim thought of something inescapable is almost like drowning, or as if in a cell. The looming nature of the inescapable. What I was mostly interested in was the lyrics when he said he was afraid of his own thoughts. Is it true, what people say then? The are afraid of themselves? How can one be afraid of their own thoughts? Is it true horror they keep replaying, like traumatic instances? Is it the questions they pose to their own reality? The questions that keep being said, but answers never found. Should we be afraid of these thoughts? I say no, I say embrace the inner turmoil, experience the profound feelings of dread and sadness. Because these feelings give others a reason to live. Maybe to delve into our suffering, and succumb to the voices means to live. If it means to live, why should we not? Are we to die? No, we must live.

Painful memories

It's 6:22am. Tonight, I find myself buried in a sea of dirt. Drowning in the grime and rock. As I gasp for air, I see the light of the sun, it burns my skin and every passing second the pebbles fill my lungs. I reach out my fingers for help, and it is with this idea, this memory, that I think everyone does. This reach for someone, a desperate attempt at connection. I see this, and it saddens me that one such as I does not feel it. As if I am inhumane, something like an abomination. I keep holding out hope there's more like me, but it's a fruitless endeavor, for should they exist, it would disappoint me all the more. I think the more I idolize something, the more the disappointment. Yet I still do, because it's important to suffer. Suffering, in itself is part of living, and to suffer means to live. So call me an animal, an abomination, feed me the scraps of illness and disease. Eat me alive, let my skin peel from my bone, and singe me alive. Because loneliness is my brother, and solitude is my lover.

Sections

It's 5:46am. I talk to you with a withered tongue. My lungs no longer inhale the righteous oxygen. My eyes no longer glow, but they are beginning to fog and grey. I look into the distance, for a semblance of something, of meaning. I listen to these mounds of flesh, how they laugh and joke with each other, comfortable in a setting full of jest and pleasurable inflating of ego. Oh how I whimper for me to feel as they do! Knowing well that I am not of them. Cut me open, cut me open and take out my insides, throw them to the wolves. Throw me into the sea of dogs, and pour me out onto the concrete. I just want to feel as they do! It must be the cancer in my being, the muck and filth that festers within my heart, that makes me so inhumane. As the mounds look upon me, they see not of their own, for my eyes hide a hunger that would only be satisfied with gore and the obscene. They see a poor man, a broken soul, a helpless animal, suffering. Little do they know, I feed on the suffering, for it defines me as family does and socialization does for them. Leave me alone, let me die among the bodies of my ancestors, let me suffer in a silence that drowns my very soul. Watch me as I burn at the stake with fire of my own making. Just let me suffer.

Foggy night, decided to take a picture, it looked beautiful. 

Control

It's 5:05am. My head hurts. Yet I still fathom the feeling of writing. As if it is a cancer I cannot ever rid of. I don't even know what I plan on writing most of the time. I wonder if I am lonely, at times in the day I do not understand others, as if I am not one of them. I guess that we all feel we are truly alone in the world, after all no one could ever peer completely into our imagination. I think if one would, I fear they would find more of a mess than originally seen from the outside, like a morbid and deplorable flesh fest. I think we are less alike, because I choose to be, yet no matter how far I choose to perceive myself, I am one in the same with humanity. At times I wish I wasn't, like some alien from a distant planet chosen to pretend to be human. Maybe it is the hole that lumbers within my soul, oh how I cry with agony and misery for it to be quelled! But alas, it can never be, not for someone like me. I want to love it, I want to love the agony, the pain, the loneliness. It is a strange statement, to want to love something that hurts. Until I learn to live within the confines of sadness, and pain I am afraid I won't be able to fully live. Everything may turn bland, and grey but my soul, let it hold the warm glow of infinity.

To love the fear, to love the absurd.

It's 4:16am. What feels like a slumbering cold winter night, seeps into tomorrow's glow. I am afraid of myself. I am afraid of all of the things I will do, and say. I am afraid of who I will become if I give into the things inside of my veins, the person that hides behind my mask. If I do someday succumb to it, I think the horror will be too much for my life to bare. It might just break my mind, and all of the things that I hold dear. I think it will be so immense, that my heart may struggle to beat, my eyes will begin to fog, and the blood that rushes through my veins will blacken to a char so unnoticeable and thick that will flow no longer. It will begin to shut my lungs down, as I struggle for life to escape my being. I know that one day, this fear will consume me, but it may be the day I accept the coldness of death. Alas, I have fallen in love with such a disastrous being, to love apathy and the absurd, to love the feeling of not caring. To love without care, it makes me feel free. To be truly free, no longer burdened by society, or fear. I am free, I say to myself and I care not of the outcomes, because I am here, I am free.

Illness

It's 3:57pm. I could not quell my lust for writing today, so I must breathe into the words that expel from my being. Yesterday was a difficult day, I had forgotten the feeling of agony. The tight grip on the boring average never left my side, until yesterday. If I was to die, I thought it would be a service, for the intense feeling of gloom and death lingered on my tongue. Yet as soon as I felt better, I was again in the state of unconscious longing for agony once again. To say the truth would be, that we human beings are always in a state of wondering, and lusting for anything but the average. Is it sane to say that I miss the trial of pain and displeasure that I had to go through? Am I not one many who is relieved at the sign of health? Must we continue on this path of self-destruction, to glimpse into the truly raw and real details of life? I say we must, to gain what others may forget or toss to the side with ease, for one man's trash is another man's treasure.