If you ache,

please let me know.

so you wouldn't ever have to 

bear these weights

alone.

Kinda wished my life was an old 60s film, or maybe at least an episode out of one of my favorite tv shows "that 70s show". Drink cheap beer all day. Smoke something illegal in a circle. And basically do nothing productive all day but enjoy life. But I guess I'm not exactly the kind of person that does unproductive things all day for months on end. But it'd be nice though. Maybe drink really cheap bad beer, wait, is there even such a thing as bad beer? But yes, drink cheap and never bad beer alone, with nothing but the sweet simple bliss of music as company. And then, feel alone and disturbed all day by my lack of productivity and insane dwellings. One day. Sweet joy.

When I look into the mirror, I half expect to see a monster staring back at me. But then I see me. Then again, who is to define what a monster looks like. They paint their faces with a mask. They deceive you. 

I walk around the world hidden behind a shadow of normalcy, but in truth, behind it all, I torment minds. I'm surprised the evil in me has  not yet made it's way to the surface, when all that I am is evil. The out should reflect the in. Perhaps a tinge of red behind my eyes? People with hearts this black living in their souls do not deserve anything. They deserve to be soulless, the way they are now. They should come with a warning sign that says, 'Alert, alert, stay away.' The best thing to do in this case would be to hide them away from the world. And to cut the thread that ties them down. I feel like the best thing I could do for anyone, is to stay away, because everything I touch, I destroy. To be dead and empty inside, would be a good thing, because then they will not harm. Because they are barely there themselves. How can you hurt if you don't know what hurt is, how can you inflict pain on another person if you yourself don't know pain. I'm sorry for all that I am.

To not feel could be a blissful thing sometimes. 

Like vines, I wrap myself around you, and with your support, I creep ever higher, and I grow ever more closer to the sun. And feed on its' rays.

And I survive. 


///

How do you differentiate what is real from what is not? 

The lines separating the two often tend to get fuzzy in my head, and they merge together in waves and swirls. It's the feeling you get when you stare at a word too long such that you can't see it well enough anymore. And the word doesn't become a word. But turns into a kiss you thought you had when perhaps you were too high to tell if you simply imagined it.

I feel like a song some days. A song you heard once, but then never heard again. Or probably never heard at all. Because maybe I was never real to begin with. What is real? How do I know that these hands are my own, and that the shoes I walk in are mine. My skin feels so tight, so stretched and taut, and fitted in a way that I don't feel is right.

Been reflecting on my life as a whole. Nights like these, it feels like I'm looking at myself from a distance and I'm evaluating every step I've ever taken. The feeling of inadequacy is one feeling that I've never been able to shake off. That and the fact that I want to do so much more in life, to help in all that I can possibly help, and I have not achieved that yet. I can't get my heart to be less blacker, can't get my mind to be any less troubled. Everything's so far away...so tangible, so fragile, and I'm afraid that everything will come tumbling down like the London bridge.

Met a sun, and it's so bright/// living in golden rays has enveloped my life in a fury of colors and warmth, and like the moon, I get my light from the sun, and it's enough that I too sometimes feel beautiful, and it's never dark. 

"tomorrow we will run faster, stretch our arms farther..." - The Great Gatsby 

I feel too much and too little and I wonder how that can be.

(post that was private, made public, why i don't know why)

There are times whereby I feel that I cannot be any blacker or darker inside than a hole twenty thousand leagues under the sea (yeah totally stole that). Other times, I feel as golden as that of Goldilocks's hair. They say that when good times come by, you hold on to it tight. Like your life depends on it. Because good things are rare. And you wouldn't want to let it pass you by.

Good things...they're like a thread. And there's not much to grasp on to. You hold it with both hands, maybe wrap it around your wrists. Please be mine, please don't go, you whisper. But you can't hold on anymore, and you don't know why. I'm in a happy place, and it's always sunny here, and I hope it lasts.