November 5th, Year Unimportant

There was a time in which everything was normal. While I cannot remember such a time, I am sure it existed, as most things one can imagine exist. What I was meant to be was exactly the person I was. Nothing is real anymore. Everything in the present moment is cardboard and plaster. But I have desires. All of them are but dreams that have collected dust. They are useless on the shelf. There’s Scotland with her fields, and heroin. There is my voice beneath that. It fills with angst and turns away from me. I fear life. Every second is weighed down by regret. Belief in the self has turned to a dust that blinds. I will lose control again, if I ever had it. There is no returning from this, no healing from this sickness. So subtle now. So steady now. How dare death seem like a sweet release? I can disappear from time, from memory.

Something has massacred purity. I’ve wandered off from the path, and am too afraid to find another.

Numb, I am numb. If my father could see me now, he would be proud to know he has turned me into a vile creature, with claws that scratch away at its own skin. I am privileged to be here, and damned to remain. Gods I have believed in, yet no angels ever came to wrap their wings around the unprotected. No Thor to defend his pretty one with a strength I have always envied. I keep it in, all of it. It is neatly tucked inside an invisible pocket. Situations change faster that I can react. I live a life that feels less and less like one, and I lie so well it looks like the truth. I am blown away before I have an opportunity to state my case. Little prisoner in the grey, grey cell. It is all because I forgot Him. The one with no name. A man I have never seen, but feel completely. And when he is near, I feel the Old World that I was never a part of. All my books come to life with His energy. Is it God I speak of? I cannot know. Not now.

I am aware of all the lines I dared to cross in an attempt to be rescued. A cry for help where there are no ears to listen. My damage may be irreparable. This is my cross, breaking my back, and cutting into my skin. I am washing away. Dream on dreamer, because it will turn into a nightmare. And here is where it all gets messy, but the beating heart continues as if it knew something not yet revealed to the mind. I think of vampires now, as if that could make it better. An eternity to think about problems that seem to exist without a solution. It would not comfort me to know that others have bled as I bleed. In fact, it would freeze me with fear. What have I done to myself? I’ve sucked around everyone. I’ve become a curse upon those I love.

I can almost remember I was promised the world. Not in so many words, but with pulses that pulled me forward, forcing my arms open. Tomorrow will be better, just not for me. Not this season. I am not enough. A small thing that leaves no impression. I am not quite well anymore. It was never automatic for me. Then there is the matter of bliss before addiction. Where does this pain fit it? Is it possible it was once pleasurable? Is it possible it has become fuel? Trip, trip, I trip along the way without much grace in between my steps, and before the minor collisions. If maybe and for a while, I could see past the fog. I forget what it is I want to see. Largeness. A sky with millions of stars, blinking for me. Not the cold of Winter that does not know when to end. If they, out there, found out that I wear layers of costumes to protect myself, I would be stripped naked, and ridiculed. And so what I am is evening glow. Something created by emotion, and time passing by to reveal darkness. It is becoming increasingly difficult to know when I have had enough. The feeling of satiation is foreign and away. I dream of soothing hands calming all anxieties, but whatever destructive force is alive within me shall continue to grow despite all efforts to remove it.
In the name of beautiful violence, one will do much, until it loses its beauty. Then, it is too late. I search for someone above it all. Above the broken glass. Above me. Above gods. The world outside of this familiar territory isn’t coming in clearly. It isn’t on my map. Where are my graces, my sense of direction, my ability to record the future as certain fact. It is all red in the fall and whatever that means, but more importantly, what it will come to mean. I could trade it all in, these ancient ways I obey, and strange mythological gods that never were but dictate my course of action, because their authority is only for me to see. Only I can know what lies near my heart, but where is this heart that I can feel beat within? My shrine tumbles down, down, and down. Everything I have held in high regard, admiring silently, has vanished. The Old World belonged to me, as I belonged to it. Now, nothing. Nothingness. I am running to locate what will ease the desperation. My claws are prepared to scratch my way out, to scratch myself out.

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November 5th, Year Unimportant

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