Something Interesting
I used to think I wanted to be a writer. I still wish that I could be a writer but I lack the dedication for it. More importantly I lack the pain for writing. For the last year and a half I was happy and in a relationship. I wish I didn't know this about myself and even more that it wasn't true. I find validation through the eyes of others and peace in that validation. Without that peace I fall into a chaotic pit inside myself. There I'm in turmoil, there I can't sleep or stop the thoughts from coming. With this disquiet comes the words and the need to spill them onto paper. Spill them onto blank canvas where ever I might find it. It's been over a year since I've felt the need to bleed words. These black words that burn through my veins gather in the hollow that is left. Now they fill me, bloat me until I am a sick and grotesque thing.
I spill out these little black words and they don't just burn me. They burn the paper, butn the white with their dark disease. They come out clumsy as I haven't written in years. What was once pure I defile with these little flickers of darkness. Shit that is morose and so not the point.
An accurate description of how I feel and the kind of person I realize I am.
I'm an incomplete person with a sucking void in my chest. I have to have someone else to tell me there isn't an emptiness that is curled around my heart. Without that constant reminder, the continious lie, I can feel it ripping me open again. And, like all voids it wants to be filled. Like the creation myths of so many cultures. The void spawns. Nothingness creates and I want to tell my story for anyone to hear. I wish I could be happy with this state of living and even though I realize the truth, I don't care. I want nothing more than to be lied to again. I want to be told that I am complete and want to feel something in my chest which isn't really there. I prefer fantasy to reality. Without the lies to fill it up, it vomits out more untruths.
"Everything I tell you is a lie." I spoke honestly. Beautiful.
I spill out these little black words and they don't just burn me. They burn the paper, butn the white with their dark disease. They come out clumsy as I haven't written in years. What was once pure I defile with these little flickers of darkness. Shit that is morose and so not the point.
An accurate description of how I feel and the kind of person I realize I am.
I'm an incomplete person with a sucking void in my chest. I have to have someone else to tell me there isn't an emptiness that is curled around my heart. Without that constant reminder, the continious lie, I can feel it ripping me open again. And, like all voids it wants to be filled. Like the creation myths of so many cultures. The void spawns. Nothingness creates and I want to tell my story for anyone to hear. I wish I could be happy with this state of living and even though I realize the truth, I don't care. I want nothing more than to be lied to again. I want to be told that I am complete and want to feel something in my chest which isn't really there. I prefer fantasy to reality. Without the lies to fill it up, it vomits out more untruths.
"Everything I tell you is a lie." I spoke honestly. Beautiful.
posted by Goddamn Batman at 11:39 PM
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