• 10:29 PM, Friday, February 17, 2012

I fucking wish I could pull my soul out from my shell and observe the way I am.

Narcissistic to the moon and I know I sound like an immature brat but the expletives want out from my system. It's just going "fuck, damn, shit, jesus fucking christ" and so on. I don't know why. It's not like I'm pissed off. Like a machine gun that won't cease.

Self-conscious, way overboard, jittery-and-all-over-the-place self-conscious, and I can't fucking rid it. Do I pour acid all over myself? That'll merely disfigure the shell. The soul's untouched.

I'm even painfully aware I'm self-conscious to the point that it's blinding me from how I really am, how the surrounding views me, how I'm supposed to be here in this mass of convoluted space. That I care too much about appearances and opinions and images and perspectives and being overly-concerned is starting to wear me and every fucking one down, but what the fuck fuck fuck I can't drag myself out of this shit and all I know is to come here and type, hopefully until my fingers melt and I'm nothing but a hodgepodge of liquid substances.

I put myself in circles and chase my tail knowing there's no end in sight; I insist I know know know because I'm the only narrator there is and no one is by my side telling me I'm doing okay or not okay or being the fucking queer I am and I don't know. Oh my god, I don't know. I can explode and I don't know; do you know?

I think I lied about being a schizoid.
Back then it was true. I felt nothing.

Right now is something entirely different.
So I lied. Hit me, I lied to the universe.

I fear so many many many many many things and I feel like I'm repeating myself all over again with the same words and the same drama and the same me and the same words (Did I type that, already? No I didn't, I fucking didn't.) and the same everything. I don't have the talent to survive. You grip me by the edges and I slip away because I'm liquid.

My heart is racing ba-dump ba-dump and I'm literally gasping for short breaths and I don't know what is what the tears are forming by the nanosecond and this is such melodrama I feel like sneering at myself.

Why must I be everything that I hate?
Why must I be so fucking fickle?

Why do I do everything on a whim, why can't I keep at it, why can't the motivation stay, why can't I like myself to feel liked by others, why can't I appreciate goddamn why must I complain complain complain like the next fool in line.

Why am I shuddering like a moron fuck it.
Why am I so talentless...

Edit:

I came back to add more.
This is, say, after 15 minutes?

I still want to drag myself out.
I'm two existences in itself.

It's exasperating and I suspect I've watched too many dramas, read too many stories, that I'm used to the narrator's viewpoint, to knowing everything down to the last insignificant detail, so in whichever direction I take, I expect I know what I'm getting myself into. And I know the outcome.

I know everything precisely because I know everything.
This is who he is, this is who she is, this is who it is.

This is what this is, this is what that is and this is what any and everything is.
Mumbling that to myself soothed my nerves. They were frenzied like hell.

But you don't predict your own life story because you don't control everything. But I'm the narrator and I foresee everything. It's not making sense. My logic is laughing at me.

So sometimes when I take this course of action or I take that course of action, a voice pipes up and takes over my imagination and creates an image of what people thinks of me when I don't know any fucking thing at all and I assume that's the world wide truth. And I know, voila I know.

I personally find the way I conform to my own needs to be disgusting.
I've seen the way people react and yes, I was and am a bastard.

I tried to change (trying is never good enough you dimwit), I bash myself to make myself feel good because then people will know I'm not that egoistic when in fact it shoots up to the heavens, I'm a lie built upon a lie when my dream is to execute a massacre on the abode of lies and I'm so simple and complicated and fearsome and cowardly and one fucking gorgeous mess that no one bothers to step in my goo.

It's too troublesome.
No one likes trouble.

I don't like trouble.

Tell me to help you out and I'll procrastinate and pretend I'm not procrastinating because it's not in my best interests to help you (and you don't seem appreciative and I'm not that compassive) and then I hate myself for acting like this, like I care when I don't really and I'm pretending in another day in another world in another me in another grand farce.

I could have been proud that I wasn't someone who covers her flaws.
I'm fucking proud of them, look! I'm ruthless and I show it.

If I don't care, I don't care.
But then the pretense pops up and I don't know anymore.

I don't understand my vanity, I don't understand my need to be accepted, I don't understand and I want to feel that cool mental by my temple because I'm burning up and the flames are biting through my skin, getting to my bones and ash and obsidian and oblivion!

And and and

And people will stop feeling bothered by my shit, by my presence, by my falsity and I won't need to feel guilty that I'm bothering anybody because I'm no longer here.

Two existences.

One is me. The other is telling me what is and what could be and what will be and what have been. In dramas they often depict that pathetic creature who could never put words into audible tones because "words aren't that easily spoken". Guess what; I can shout "I'm a fucking queer!" across my block half an hour before midnight but I don't because I'm scared and that is not me and I'm just acting like I'm capable of everything because I want to break out of stereotypes.

I read through my entry and I can tell I'm frightened.
I'm neither dumb nor am I clueless. I can tell that much.

But don't you think it's pathetic for the person herself to state "I'm scared" even if he or she does realise it? It's like screaming "I'm weak and I'm exposing my flaws and look, hello, turn your fucking heads and stare at me for all I'm worth I'm here right now breathing in your air in your faces!"

But if I don't, it's like I'm ignorant of that fact.

Every time I start feeling good about myself, I'm disgusted again.
Why the fuck are you so vain, thinking you've got talent?

Sometimes I'm smug because my words came out the way I like them.
The next day I want to write them down on solid paper and tear them to shreds.

Some days I don't care anymore and the next few days I thump on my chest and roar like fucking Tarzan because I've left everything to their own devices and there're too much to be done.

I can never be as constant as Naru because he isn't hereeeeeeeeeee fuck fuck fuck he isn't here and he's just a figment of a talented individual's imagination. Whom I worship, I worship the ground he walks on, he gave me a quarter of my life.

Wrong I'm jesus fucking christ wrong from head to toe.

And then everyone is telling me how lucky I am because I've got the family, the environment, the grades, the everything; hey there, yes I'm beaming, I should be over the moon given my circumstances because there should be nothing to gripe about but here I am, griping about things you do or don't understand and you want to lash out because I'm not appreciative.

You know what, I really wouldn't mind if you pulled that cool metal out from behind your back because I can't quite do it myself. I'd regret and hesistate and all that shit before the trigger gets pulled, but I can't do that if the hand belongs to you, now can I?

I don't know why I think and why I'm proud of thinking like I do when it causes all these... I don't know. All these.

Then there're people thinking I've got it all.
Did I type about that already?

Then there're people. Thinking I've got. It. All.
I happen to think I've got it all, too.

(I've got all these disorders too, you want some of them?)

Even if I'm talentless, humans can do anything if they want to and I'm no exception.
Talentless humans have made a name for themselves on this green planet. Proof enough.

But I hate my frightened self who thinks everything is impossible without someone telling me I'm on the right track. It's like you know the examination date is on the twentieth but when you get to the eerily empty location, you begin to doubt and then convince yourself that you must had mistaken the date before you realise it's because you're merely too early.

And I want to tell anyone who's listening, strangers or aliens, that all I want is a pat on my shoulder. I want to go out one day and stand in the midst of the morning crowd and like a fucking fairy tale a man or woman or girl or guy or animal will sense the queer spilling from my back and somehow reckons "This poor creature needs a pat," and do just that.

Who the fuck am I kidding.

No one does that not because they don't sympathise with me, but because they're afraid as well and more importantly, they don't even know me or my life story. I know that, gasp, how many times have I said that?

I'm jealous, I'm so jealous of people who are genuinely happy and don't gripe about every little thing in life because they have a broad perspective and they've pulled all the veneration from my worthless soul and I want to puke rainbows and smile sunshine upon their presences. I like them so much, but they're so far from reach. And that goes for both the literal and figurative sense.

Right now the 2 years seem excruciating again.
I have to fly overseas to inch closer to my veneration.

There's only one who's right by my side.
And that's my mom. That's right, my mom.

I'm not trying hard enough, not yet, but I can't bring myself to care nowadays when my mom spits all these triggering words and I want to rage and overturn all the desks and smash all the glassware in the house and it's over because it's been carried out in my head.

It's all right (actually it's never all right) if friends spit those because, yeah, who cares if you're stick thin because it's only an insult to call overweight people the 'f' word and underweight people should be proud that they're the way they are? So we're entitled to comments like "You look sickly thin, can you just shove a burger down your throat? You don't look good at all."

Looks, looks, looks

I'm positive there are naturally thin people who don't suffer from eating disorders of any kind and they get insults like these all the time. Maybe 0.1% of them are secretly proud, but what about the rest of the 99.9%? Who cares, right? Who cares.

And then those who do suffer from eating disorders will matter dirt shit.
"Oh, look at my 'f' thighs, I'll never look as good as you. How much do you weigh?"

This coming from a girl with perfectly normal weight.

I hold great empathy for those who are underweight or overweight.
We undergo different trials, but they're trials all the same.

We're judged, we're insulted, though sometimes the underweight receives the worse end of the stick because the overweight thinks we're looking down on them. No, we aren't. We fucking aren't. We think you're amazing, but you'll never believe us.

Yes, add this to everything I've got.
I've got the thin-till-my-bones-protude figure.

Jealous? Huh, are you jealous?
I'll fucking give it to you, just take it.

I've never wanted to type about this because it's plain crude to the overweight and I'm frightened I'll be taken the wrong way because this is aimed at the normal weight and insensitive jerks alone, but I'm at the end of my tether. I'm at the fucking end, you want to break me apart like a nut?

Oh, I'm griping about nothing, I should simply eat more!
Now be a good kid and go educate yourself on anorexia.

Oh hang on, maybe you still won't get it because I'm suffering from the abyssal effects; not just the superficial scratches on the surface.

I don't care anymore, I'll expose myself for all I'm worth.

Who says you have to know a person to his or her core before you pull the skeletons from your closet? I'll never have the chance to do that, so I'll do this now.

I've been typing for an hour and it's not enough.
Tears have dropped and dried and dropped and dried.

Every few weeks I'll have this spurt of inspiration and after it dies down, a growing piece of something is ripped from my depths.

I am much closer to insanity than ever before.
I'm frightening and I'm frightened.

Those who want to help, those who don't know how to help, those who never voice their concern; I'll never come to know any of them.

Oh gosh, I'm tired.
I'm tired.

I'm going to sleep.
I'm going to bawl myself to sleep.

I'll be fine when I wake up.
This is all insanity in the night.