I started this post hoping to let loose the voices my head, to allow them to scream as they scream in my head all day but they scream too fast for me to be able to type it all down. They scream of my worthlessness, and despondency, and hopelessness, and the fact that I must question why I am alive, and burdening nice human beings who seem to adore me despite the fact that I'm just an expensive disappointment. I'm like that pair of Steve Maddens you bought at full price, and now they only decorate your shelf because they skin your ankles every time you put them on. My mind screams in its hollowness wondering why people like me. It also wonders why they don't. I had a list of bullet points for every time I felt like this, inadequate, lacking, stupid, a list to remind me why I have friends but I seem to have lost it and I can't remember a single reason. Its tearing me apart from the inside. Before I implode, my mind screams, reverberates the way I sit or lie down, the folds and globs of fat that eat up my torso like a slimy monster, just rolls and tools of goo and pudge that line my material being which make it impossible to ever look into a mirror without hiding myself under oversized t-sirts and tiny shorts.
We trudge through the day with a myriad of thoughts, hopeless one second, the next without a fuck, the third so cocky and arrogant, the fourth, uncaring, the fifth so cold, the sixth, wanting to be invisible, the eighth ruminating the purpose of life, the ninth, the first, the second, the third all with underlying plea begging for it to shut up. To shut up. Just shut up.
Its not just Mondays and its not just stress days. Its us. Everyday. And it is so hard to find the right words. like real writers who make you feel, who make us realise that we are not the only ones. To read those words that fully explain that shitty feeling that we couldn't explain to anyone and the relief that floods when you realise that you are not the only one. I am tired of trudging through life every day with voices in my head. I feel sometimes that I am merely an emotional being. A vase, a jar, an empty vessel with used tissue paper, and scribbled ink notes, and just random doodles, emotions, nothing else. Sometimes I think I'm not because even when I am not feeling, and not thinking and just drifting off to sleep, he thinks something is wrong with me, perhaps I was crying. My silence maybe is savouring with its eyes closed his hands caressing my hair, and his lips on my forehead and his book between my shoulder blades. The ecstasy I am devouring, the ecstasy devouring me. Thats how I trudge through the day, my mortal, emotional being, in the safety of his arms ignoring the rest of the trudging life, stopped, paused, hidden, ruling a castle of blankets and fleeting hearts. And sometimes, the mind would even shut up.
We trudge through the day with a myriad of thoughts, hopeless one second, the next without a fuck, the third so cocky and arrogant, the fourth, uncaring, the fifth so cold, the sixth, wanting to be invisible, the eighth ruminating the purpose of life, the ninth, the first, the second, the third all with underlying plea begging for it to shut up. To shut up. Just shut up.
Its not just Mondays and its not just stress days. Its us. Everyday. And it is so hard to find the right words. like real writers who make you feel, who make us realise that we are not the only ones. To read those words that fully explain that shitty feeling that we couldn't explain to anyone and the relief that floods when you realise that you are not the only one. I am tired of trudging through life every day with voices in my head. I feel sometimes that I am merely an emotional being. A vase, a jar, an empty vessel with used tissue paper, and scribbled ink notes, and just random doodles, emotions, nothing else. Sometimes I think I'm not because even when I am not feeling, and not thinking and just drifting off to sleep, he thinks something is wrong with me, perhaps I was crying. My silence maybe is savouring with its eyes closed his hands caressing my hair, and his lips on my forehead and his book between my shoulder blades. The ecstasy I am devouring, the ecstasy devouring me. Thats how I trudge through the day, my mortal, emotional being, in the safety of his arms ignoring the rest of the trudging life, stopped, paused, hidden, ruling a castle of blankets and fleeting hearts. And sometimes, the mind would even shut up.
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