Someone found my life remote and pressed the sideways enter. =
There isn’t one for the flip.
The slashes across the top remind your brain of Roman Numerals too much.
Every time I get time it ticks out of my fingers like waste.
I waste it.
Then it sends a ticker into my chest and I feel like I’m on the clock to a heart attack. Not a real one, I’m far too healthy for such a thing.
Yet the emotion.
The fucking emotion, that word even sickens me like the connotative catastrophe that it is.
How the fuck am I meant to translate myself to you?
How are these pages supposed to capture me and show it to you?
It doesn’t show my face or the tone of voice or the right colors and I even hate this left juxtaposition. Do you realize how long, how many hours I’ve spent in front of this screen?
You might think that it’s worth it, that I’m doing ‘something’ but you aren’t me. I’m me. In fact, thinking you think that is a projection of my own bloody thoughts. When people bitch about their passion or when they talk about their back story. They talk about reaching turmoil and they
just reach into life, find themselves and become incredible.
They all have these stories of when they finally lept, when they shed their old skin and flew.
We see them now with their brilliant colors flapping above us, showing that we can do it because they did it, and that we should follow our dreams and hearts because success is possible and dreams can become reality.
But what if our dreams are just preschizophrenia?Tee hee.
What if our dreams have held nightmares and we’re scared they’re waiting in the same place?
Yes, those actors and famed humans reached their bell’s ring with striking hammers of inner force, but that moment they decided to go for it.
That moment may have been terrifying. They didn’t know. In that moment the future was frightening, more than any dream. Dreams allow us to fail.
We get to imagine and just let them remain clouds.
They give us too far to fall so we stay grounded.Pretending dreams are only fantasies.
I don’t know.
Because any thing can be something we never truly knew.
But what if we let our dreams turn to nightmares?Solely because we never put them on acid?
Ferment your dreams and let them sprout reality. Just give them fucktonsn of sugar or salt and pretend you know what you’re doing. Just distract people until they forget or just let you go. You get confusing enough you can just drift away and fire in your safe little blog.
In reality I have too many dreams and see to many nightmares. Humans all around are fading and breaking, and I don’t know who to hold and how to save them. I want to save everyone, but everyone is hurting. Am I supposed to choose?? Is every day I don’t write a book that can give someone a chance to feel that others have their wicked thoughts, that someone else relates, that their mind is not a game the world can play anymore, that it’s theirs, that toxins and poison aren’t trigger words but for them being guns to our minds, that the pain in the head can be cured?
I keep eating the wrong things, testing it over and over, eating meat from squished farm animals and feel the energy penetrate my soul like sarcasm steeped in sadness and boiled with bloody brains. That energy is rancid and makes my thoughts slow. Literally I feel them slow. I stop thinking. Thoughts plan out suicidal means. I fear my inner thoughts. I fear my own self. I try to break through it, to understand it, but don’t want to be inside myself and feel that disconnect.
To understand means it can all break. I’ll tell you things so real your brain won’t be able to deny them.
Yet where does it lead?
Where does it end?
I’m too scared of breaking brains because who can pick up the pieces?
And will they just cycle again?