A rant I wrote yesterday for no real reason. Just felt like writing, and this came out. So yeah. I don’t even know why I’m sharing it, but I am. So, there we go.
And I feel as if there is this tangible force within myself. I understand these are emotions, but at times I feel as if I can feel them calling all almost. Like my anguish is just beneath my skin, longing for a way out of my body. Wanting the things I cannot attain, but dream of in the night. I feel it flowing through me, dulling my happy thoughts, and replaces them with sharp depression energized daggers, stabbing at my heart.
I’ve discovered that my body seems to lean froward when I think these thoughts, even when I’m sitting in a chair, as if I’m forcing myself into an almost catatonic, fetal position of sorts, hoping these thoughts will go away, but in reality just submitting to them. I listen to music, and I can feel the force beneath myself, calling out. Like it wants me to be singing the lyrics, that mean nothing to any situation I have, but for some reason the rhythm, melody, and harmony seem to speak to my soul. It makes me want to write, more then just this, though at the moment this is whats coming out, like horrid excrement or immaculate light. I cannot tell.
This urge to write, it engulfs me, but I realize I have no stories that are worth telling, not even my own. At the moment, I’m almost writing without thinking, going into non-though. As if my subconscious is taking over and letting me go for the ride. I’m writing and speaking the words to myself before I type them, or as I type them. Like this is some sort of split decision within myself to explain why I feel like this, in hopes of something theraputic, and it may be, but I don’t feel it is. I just want to write something good, that’s enthralling and exciting.
And I want my life to start going my way. I want the girl of my dreams to break up with her boyfriend and come with me. Hell, I would enjoy if if she talked to me first, and made it seem like she still gave a shit about me. I wish she would remember things about me, that I could never forget about her. Her favorite color is green, and the freckles she has all around her body are like stars sprinkled around her skin. He laugh envokes joy within my being, and her smile is the immaculate light I think comes from within myself too. I wish she would say she loved me like I said to her, or at least, wrote to her.
But she has forgotten about me entirely. I’m like a ghost, a fragment of myself because of this. I blocked off a part of my heart for her, because I didn’t know what else to do. And that part is on fire; sometimes a good, deep fire that burns within my soul, and other times, and damaging, all engulfing blaze, burning all that lives within the wall, until only ashes remain.
It makes me want to cry, but I can’t. I blocked part of myself for that reason. I would destroy myself if I could. I would scream until the the dogs howled back at me in terror, and I would cry until the world drowned itself. It would last an eternity, never ending, never faultering. That is what is left of my soul, and myself. A shell of being, going through the motions most of the time, seeing and comprehending little, and digging deeper within himself for answers, when there is nothing deeper. Just dirt and sand within a desolate desert, sun burning the land, and parching the plants. Death incarnate.
And I feel myself rambling, and I am almost getting angry at myself, even if I can’t feel it at the moment. Writing this all down has only made me more depressed, more angry at myself. I feel like my emotions are wrong, my life wrong. Nothing but a ruse. And why? I don’t know really. I just wish it wasn’t like this. Why do I feel so dead on the inside so often? I don’t. Just now. Just times when I think of her, and her essence flows through me. When did I attach her to this anguish? It is hard not to attach a catalyst to their crime, even though this has been a majority of my life, and not her fault. Just taking the newest begininng of the spinning shit storm, and blaming them. Feeling inferior to those around me, constantly. Building walls from burned bridges, because I can’t hold onto the connection I really have, because of my walls. Because even when I let people in, I don’t always let them in all the way. I can never be my true self to anyone. Ever. It will never happen. Ever part of me screams for it, but alas, no. Truth leads to pain, even if a facade can lead to more. So I’ll stay the master carpenter, within my tower, building and building, till I am out blocks.