locuran

"Can't sleep. Psychotic delusions make it kinda hard"
02 / 02 / 04

melancholy

This part was posted at another place, hence the bit about spamming. (I'd already posted something a few minutes prior.) Then I realised something about the post, and decided to bring it over here. The original post is blockquoted, with some I added following out the block.

I will not spam. 2 posts isn't spamming. When I post 3+, then it's spam.

Who am I kidding? It's spam all the way.

Actually, it's me feeling damn sorry for myself. (Obviously I must tell them to up the neurotin.) So ignore the drabble. I'll probably delete it later, when I'm a little less pathetic/depressing. Okay, less depressing. I'm stuck on the pathetic part, I'm sure.

I suppose that wishing "everyone play nice" is also a boring thought. Conflict brings interest, being it entertainment or real life. Though it's hard finding where one ends and one begins. Sometimes real life seems more ludicrous than my tv ever could be. But that's how it is.

Sometimes I want to laugh at myself. Other times I wonder why can't I become passionate about things and not worry about what others think. Most times, though, it's just the fog of apathy. That's the frightening side of things. I often worry about how far will that apathy spill out into area that I'd rather it not.

Then I want to beat my head in for being so melodramatic.

At the same time, I want to quit. Quit feeling, quit rationalising, quit thinking, quit breathing. So in summary, quit living. But that's a piss poor thing for anyone to want. So I convince myself that I don't, that only cowards would go that route.

Sure, I'll be brave, huddled in this corner I made myself.

I feel sorry for some teens, who feel ready to go off in a million pieces, getting clumped into such group labels as teen angst and goth wannabes. I mean, sure, hearing how it's the end of the world because the 'rents won't get 'em a new car is irksome. But there are a few cases where it's a lot more than just a case of changing hormones. And it continues well into the adult years, this quiet state of confusion.

Staring down the barrel of thirty, and I'm just as clueless about what's going on inside my head as I was when I was sixteen.

I want to write, and I want to show the world, but I'm not that stupid anymore. I recognise the spoilt brat within myself, who would pout because, surprise, the whole world didn't like it. Most times I'm able to get around this. I show a select few, they smile and pat the brat on the head, who in turn leaves me alone. Personally, I'd like to get rid of my inner brat, but don't know how.

It's funny, also, what I've developed a thick skin to, and what I still need to work on. The general decline of the world hardly touches me, but I can't take insulting criticism at all. I have a hard time with constructive, in truth. It's not that I think I'm the best. Yeah, right, and our current global political situation is just peachy. I'm well aware of my multitude of flaws in writing. But it's not that I don't want to improve, because I do, at least in a direction I'm comfortable with. (Damn you, perception, for you're not a universal concept.) If I don't flinch when I hear a gunshot right outside my window, why is it so hard seeing others point out where I can improve in my work? Surely that gun poses a bigger threat, even though in my area, it happens all the time.

Perhaps that's part of the problem there. Living in an urban violence that comes closer to guerilla warfare has twisted how I can handle mundane things, because I've had to adapt the idea of what I consider "mundane." Nor will I go the route my peers and neighbors take, staying in a near constant buzz from whatever alcohol/weed they can get.

Not to say that I haven't been tempted.

So I have these thoughts going 140 mph, and in the end I just wonder, when will it stop?


So what do you do when you're feeling like hell warmed over, not able to sleep, and kinda halfway wishing those gunshots you keep hearing would hurry up and hit you already?

I think hypocrisy should be punishable by death, except that I'm only saying it because I find I am a hypocrite, or at least I was tonight, and death would just be a permanent escape for a temporary problem.

Goddess, I feel like crap, on every level of human existance. Mentally, spiritually, emotionallly... all crap. And I don't know how the hell to pull myself out of this hole.

Normalcy is highly overrated, but what I wouldn't give to feel normal right now.

Sorry, spammers forced my hand. Comments reviewed before being published.

still winds