Is it abuse, it is evolution, what is this sensation, emotions all over the place, reaching highs of mountains inside my head, exploding with tears the next day on a thread, hanging to some plan to get somewhere, no idea where, to quote matisyahu, check the blueprint look within, no answer, no clue, trusted and spat on for something I cannot change, told it won’t ever be the same again, like Jericho chanting it in my brain, I know it to be true, but different might not be so bad, after all was it ever a good thing?
Lost without a clue, no idea if it is a bad idea or a good one, but I want to find out, I can’t do it on my own, I tell stories on my pages, but in life I can’t relax, can you tell? I write to shed light on my own mind, to free myself of guilt, of boredom, of pain, of hurt, of happiness and loss, because emotion doesn’t aid me, not when I am like this.
Psychic links to my life make me wonder if I could read things better in time, help myself work out what I am doing. When you look at yourself or what you’re doing and cry, because you know to do what you want to do deep down you have to hurt yourself and people you know care, so you don’t do it, you think of them, you cry that you wish you could share that moment, you can’t because if you did you don’t know if you would survive it, it might tip you over the edge, you tell yourself you need to wait until you have nothing to lose, before you risk it for a biscuit and toke!
You are too emotional to be open to people right now so you write till you run out of story to tell, once a young boy, anti-drugs, anti-drink, then close to a junkie but one with knowledge, not stupidity, but some calculated risks so they say. Then a little reckless, but only once, then a few slips, a few relapses into old ways, then she burns in front brighter than any before her, when you realise you can just drop an obsession for another if someone leaves you alone long enough, it hurts you that you can’t be allowed to settle on one, they seem to have to break away, you read an article, feel you could have sociopathic nature, but if you are who the fuck would want a piece of that, someone who cannot feel love like a neurotypical human being.
Not even someone who thinks you are awesome, or someone who would pretend to be your cousin, or someone who would make their own mind up rather than take a friends word, then when you disagree on something bigger, agree in hope of keeping you along for the ride, the train crash waiting to happen. Or someone who would rather walk away than know if it could have worked, writing not to control or to direct, but to eject, to pass out the torment, away from yourself, telling it as someone else in hope that it is easier to write, knowing someone will declare you depressed, so what, if you are, you are doing what you can to take yourself out of it, knowing you hid it and you ran from it all before, what is the use in continuing again that way?
You could stay writing, over on a hundred pages or more, til your fingers were stiff and eyes wide shut, but an ending is close for a wordsmith must always finish on a pause . . . .