Note to self #2

The only way to survive (but not thrive) is to keep your mind busy and your heart numb.

Note to self

Disregard your feelings. Drop the act. Nobody cares. Nobody wants to handle your shit. Nobody’s interested in constantly having to patch your fucked up psyche.  Nobody wants that job. Nobody’s entitled to carry that burden, except for yourself.

Stop showing people that you’re dying inside. Nobody wants to know. Nobody wants to help. Some may seem that they do, but they don’t and more importantly, they can’t. It’s your fight. You’re alone. Completely alone in this.

Man up, keep it inside, hide it no matter what and try to fit it. Try to be a robot. Don’t focus on what or how you feel. Don’t even think about it, and above that, don’t let it out. Never let it out. It becomes real once you do, and still nobody wants it. Nobody wants to take care of your gruesome self. Not even you. So drop it.

You've been trying to fix it for so long, but it’s not going away. It’s over-proportioned already and it’s all your fault. Change. At least on the outside. Stop hiding in alcohol or drugs. Even those things don’t want to be involved in this. They won’t take the pain away. They won’t even numb your inner monsters anymore. They’re still there. Waiting. They feed on your every worthless try. So don’t try. Don’t you fucking try. Accept it. You’re doomed. Forever. No doubt. No way out.

Knowing all of this, you need to stop trying to get out. You need to stop trying to find someone who will pull you out. Move forward with your plastic skin. Or die. Either way, you’re completely and utterly dead inside anyway. You’re alone no matter what and you’ll be alone forever. The pain won’t go away, there is nothing to make it go away. Deal with it.

The only thing you can and should do is use whatever you have, use your fake plastic skin that covers your dead bones. Use it for others. Stop thinking about yourself, because you’re nothing. You don’t matter anyway. That should be clear by now. You’re dead already, but you can help others live.Take your pain along and do something plastic. If you can’t do things for yourself, do them for the others. They need it. You don’t. You’re not here. Not really. You’re long gone. Goodbye..

THE END.

4

Might be chemical. Might be. Might..

It’s all too sudden to handle, too swift to process. She gets hit by a train of massive disappointment and sadness.. and rage. She’s mad at herself, mad at the world, mad at herself.. Mad.

Going completely mental seems to take over her reality, brutally sucking the life out of her tender flesh. Her  head is roughly going through a process of denial and self-destruction after so helplessly and rapidly burning through every single moment, through every single memory, real or fake, through every inch of her scattered brain waves. Restlessly pulling her under. She fades away with every dying heartbeat. Boom. Boom.. Boom.

That loud, obnoxious beep is still going strong in her inner ear, sliding through the Eustachian tube towards the pharynx, where it asphyxiates her, choking and suffocating her, stealing every breath she has to offer with no mercy whatsoever.

She can not separate the background noise from the internal one. They mix up in a rough, scratchy, yet gooey amalgam and slide down her chest and press so very hard on her fragile collarbones.. So heavy.. Yet she struggles to survive despite the bleeding wounds she has on her pale, white skin. A desperate move to the left, a hopeless one to the right, a low, morbid cry manages to escape, but no one hears her. No one’s there to help her stay alive.

Is she dying? Is this her last battle?

She thinks about herself, and she looks in the mirror, but all she sees is a deform, faulty, small-eyed monster. What evil did it take for this mysterious, dangerous creature to materialize and grow? What hell did she escape from and where does she go next?

She thinks. She smells the cinnamon essence again. So strong, so destructive.. A devastation of the senses. Total collapse. 

3

She feels like she's imploding. And exploding.

It’s not that she's always depressed, but when she is, it’s worse than ever. She feels like climbing the walls, like she's gonna explode on the inside and paint the room with her bloody guts and her drained out brain. It’s the worst realization she has had about herself so far.

She's desperate as fuck and she cannot talk to anyone about it. This. This is her only solution so far. Not so effective, but she has no other alternative. She feels like she cannot take the pressure and the weight anymore.

So far, smoking and drinking helped her find some sort of foggy weightlessness, but now, she can only achieve chaos. Her head is murdering her, asphyxiating her with its loud, scratchy thoughts and she is merely a frightful observer, helpless in her nature.

She possesses a strong need for affection, attention and understanding that outruns her tendency to become independent. She's her own worst enemy and is fully aware of it.  Everything is contradicting, everything is opposing everything, while she sits helplessly, breathing slower and slower, and watching herself crumble, unwind and fall apart. The dust that remains is intoxicating, making the air difficult to breathe. It’s pure poison, while inhaling her own remains messes with her head even further. It’s killing every inch of healthy tissue she has left. Every cell, every particle, every atom which builds her up is breaking brutally, is turning into nothingness, while she dangerously slides under and over herself. Sudden combustion of the spirit and of the mind. And every particle is floating carelessly into the atmosphere, intertwining with every dust particle and every dirty, disgusting piece of the universe.

She is everywhere. She is nowhere. She is nobody. Who is she? What is she?..

2

Drank half of bottle of wine already. My mind is racing and floating steadily in the same time. “Where is my mind?”-Pixies nailed it!

I have absolutely no reason to act the way I do. Yet still...

My mouth cannot express what my mind so firmly wants to let out.

I’m going to a shrink. Soon. Will it help? Probably not. I am utterly incapable of opening up entirely, irrefutable. I am forever locked, trapped into my head. It will not give me a rest, a gulp of air, a moment of peace and quiet. I do not even know the definition of “silence”.

This is torture, pure self-destruction. Irreversible. I enjoy it at times. Self-destruction, that is. I savor every poisonous drop of it. It is fully intoxicating, it spreads like a firing, hot air balloon through my spirit, and yet it is of unimaginable complexity. And dimensions.

Wake up!