Tuesday, June 29, 2004
It was like sawdust, the unhappiness: it infiltrates everything, everything was a problem, everything made her cry- school, homework, friends, boyfriends, the future, the lack of future, the uncertainty of future, fear of future, fear in general- but it was hard to say exactly what the problem was in the first place. Melanie Thernstrom, The Dead Girl.
I am wide awake at 2 in the morning.
No matter how I try, I can't sleep. There's too many things on my mind.
I feel no reason to blog. Why should I even bother? I'm only a tiny blob of mass on earth. Practically insignificant.
Why would my fucken insignifiant existence be of any importance?
I'm just a heap of raw bleeding flesh. Far too insignificant, yet a sight you have to look twice at when you pass it by. Why would my thoughts make a difference? How can I even think I can change the world? I'm just a fucken speck of dust on an otherwise clean plane of glass. A glass made up of people who refuse to think. And by thinking, I've eroded my very self into an utter heap of mess.
It's self annihilation.
Just like feminism.
Just like faith.
Just like dating.
It's self annihilation.
I don't see why i even bother anymore.I can't even begin to sort out the mess that I'm in, I don't know where to start. I don't know how to start. I cannot even see the near future anymore, even if I do, my future as I see it is merely consists of dark, sordid alleys where the filth of my life lies. I have no idea where I'm heading. My state of mind is beyond evaluation. My emotions, how I feel is another matter all together.
In the name of bleeding fuck, I don't know anything anymore.
I cannot carry on. I cannot continue deceiving. I have been refusing to admit the fact that the only person I deceive is only myself. I can't put on the mask anymore. I can't carry on being the happy-and-cheery fuzzy when I'm breaking inside.
I'm breaking so bad and I can't do anything about it.
Jesse's right. I want certainty. I want security.
And it kills me that I can't have them both. Its absence seems to gnaw at my flesh, and I'm bleeding. Only I have no idea whether the fucken Band-Aids are.
I should just bleed and die.
I need to break apart. I've been trying to be strong for far too long. But I know I can't put myself back together. Fucking hell, I've never had the patience of jigsaws. I was far too smart to waste my bleeding time on stupid fucken jigsaws.
I want to paint on a clean canvas. I want to get rid of the charcoal dirt from under my fingernails from drawing with charcoal pencils. I want to remove the paint stains on my face, on my hands, on my clothes.
I need someone to piece me back together. I don't- and can't trust anybody to do that. Anyway, it's incredibly selfish of me to want to make someone help clean up my mess. I'm too insignificant, people have better things to do in their lives.
I'm my own mess. Somehow, someday, I'll allow myself to break, and gradually, I'll learn to pick myself up, to form the jigsaw, to paint on a new canvas.
For now, I'll just indulge in my solitude. My solitude, my angst, my despair. My insignificant little self. When tomorrow comes, solitude is the last thing I'll ever enjoy for the next 6 months. Somehow, the monotony of routine seems far more appealing that the thought of sweet solitude for the next 3 hours or so.
Sweet solitude.
Hah.
posted by Fuzzy @ 01:52
monologue.
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