Vindicated, Vendettas, 4th April
(added: yeah. This one was, yeah)
And I am flawed
(added: yeah. This one was, yeah)
And I am flawed
But I am cleaning up so well
You know when something bottles up within you, an inconceivable force that just takes up your entire being, body and mind? A thought so pickled, that combined with the daily mechanisms, mutates and shifts in your head and just eats you up raw from the inside. And you somehow end up walking like a hollow shell sort of, a part of you forever transfixed on these non verbals.
You live with this dratted creature of a horror inside you. The horror of unfinished thoughts and cliff hanging hopes. The horror of a endless pit hole of what ifs. The horror of realising that the moment, where you throw your hands out, bare your chest and say There Is Nothing I Can Do About This, It's Screwed. Some things cannot change, cannot be undone.
Tell me would you kill to save a life? Tell me, would you kill to prove you're right? Crash. Crash. Burn.
I'm not a terrible person. I've done terrible things, disturbingly. It's within this past month, that maybe everything's catching up to me. Hooks, nooks, waves. I've been walking this past week on a bed of nails mentally, my thoughts screaming. Gnawing inside me, jeopardizing everything. I kid you not when I claim I've abandoned ship. And the logical part of my brain is condensing that to lack of rest, physically; lack of motivation, mentally; lack of care, emotionally. But you do know, it can't just be that.
So I spent my Sunday night dragging it out of me, tooth and nail. And it feels like I've extracted a monstrous dragon from inside me. Every thing that I should've said, everything I've wanted to do, I acknowledged it in my head that night. God knows the inference bared. And this acquiesce, this peace making with my benumb thoughts, trying to find safe ground to plant new hope, was reliving. Wretched, begone, please, it was about time. Something that I've kept to do, that I should've, til that night.
I hope I've made peace. If not with the past, if not with the passing present, then at least with my thoughts. 'Nobody really knows how much anyone else is hurting. We could be standing next to someone who is completely broken and we'd never know it', right? The thing is, life goes on. You have to make do with the cards and move on. And as with every other fucking conclusion I've come up with to every other fucked up issue I've ratified, hold on to hope that it'll be alright.
Thank you, so much, you, for being there and being a rock for me that night. You have no idea how completely exhausted and broken I was.
Electives of Neurosis, 27th April
Kina Grannis - Cambridge
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tSdELZxEnHY
No. You won't regret it, I promise. Or, maybe you will. Bahaha >;D
And when all of hell had already broken loose, leaving the debris and smoking ashes, cracked earth, broken. Amongst the corpse of a shattered past will dawn a piercing conscience. Basic conception: Change. And with it Control. Then Order. Then when all is well, Chances.
Enraged and frustrated, completely broken over something. Twisted minds. If you've ever had a moment of ending up as a shattered, damaged piece of a person, choked breaths, throbbing beats. Dulcet punches, debates. Arguments. If you've been through a 4am fight, heavy limbs heavy heart heavy head, a 4am slog through the whirlpools of dejection.. the messes of your life exploded in the greyness of your dwell. Swamp. Reeks of longing and sadness.
Some god ass smarmy dickhead will probably say: Some Things Will Have To Change. You know it has to. Fuck it. In all seriousness, life can't be conducted via a series of nothings, or black nothings. Blank nothings. It's getting there that's the harderst part and no matter how optimistic I get when the sun bursts and the birds start their twittering and chirping, I know I'll sink a bit into oblivion when the night falls. It probably gets lesser and fewer as the time passes. Maybe easier. As. The. Time. Passes.
Well, not much time has passed.
Light of this. Darn it, I've successfully agitated myself at how woeful I'm becoming. Side-effects of a catastrophic nirvana. What. Days flop around. Clogs and bolts. Mechanically drumming 4 months worth of data and its technicalities to the head.
I hate this post. I'm just venting out shit that's so stilted it's coherency rivals a kindergarten student. Correction: kindergarten kid. Trust me to worry about collective grammar when my brain is so flooded with despair and desire and my shirt was attacked by a mucus monster and wet and my hair is -
I'll stop.
Dear Diary, 22nd April
You want to know what I realised?
Sometimes people don't want to be told what to do. Or be told I told you so. People don't want to hear a list of should have's, or profanities directed to whatever's abusing you. People don't want to hear a "Hey, Cheer Up!" or "Hey, Chill!!" Or receive a link containing something stupidly funny. Not a heavy pat on the back, or a "we're in the same boat" when we're not. Not a direct opening to another person's problems either, as in a "Me too! Do you know what happened just now to me ..." and switch focus. No.
Sometimes people just want a sincere pat on the back, a genuine comforting hug. A hug that has all the comforting words rolled into it without it having to be uttered much, except maybe in whispers. That you can do it. That all you have to do is breathe in, collect yourself, and start back. That it's NOT the end. That as long as you're worrying it'll be okay. And if you're not, it'll be okay but you'll have to be okay first. That chances and opportunities will be missed, but another one will come up, will always do. That despite everything you really are a wonderful intelligent person, who's just in a crap situation. They know that and they believe in you. Genuinely and wholeheartedly.
So breathe, hug as tight as you can, let it out of you, it'll be okay, you're not dead yet you silly lovely person. And come, I'll breathe with you and help you in this together. We all have our crap walls and our challenges to conquer.
It's funny. 4 months down the road, despite the bizarrely altered setting, I could land right back to a warped time zone and recollect the damaged pieces. The only difference is. This time I'm landing back knowing I. Can. Leave. Some scars run too deep. You've made your bed, I've made mine. Be safe.
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