Getting hit by a freight train feels like this...

I’m afraid of the improbable and the impossible; of wounding hearts and hands. It’s like shooting at a glass moon and watching it shatter to a million pieces only to be plagued by the duty of having to pick up the pieces and putting it back together.  It’s a never-ending vicious cycle and things are never the same again.  The cracks and holes will always be there for the whole world to feast on – broken and torn.  Once that’s done, you sink deeper and deeper.  It’s cigarette depression – to quote a phrase from a book I have never read.  It just fills you up and decays you from inside out – rotting, fouling up. Failure had always been me.  An ever constant presence that eats at my insides.  Success is but an elusive dream that never comes but is always gone. I feel like I’m on the wrong side of a gun.  Cocked, locked and loaded and pressed against the temple of my head filled with useless thoughts of death and uncalled for redemption.  To use the cliché, I’m caught between

She thought her relationship with her friends already seemed unhealthy.  As the days progress, she feels more and more like an outsider and it was driving her insane.  There’s always that hitch in her throat and her heart palpitates with so much sadness to see their friendship fall apart.  There’s also this insane idea in her brain that either she’s the only one who notices it or that she’s really that much different from them.  She’s just really, totally, and outrageously different from her friends. She wasn’t cool.  She was a geek pretending to be cool, and the pretension was getting to her.  It was eating her from the inside – an insatiable termite living in her psyche. She was tired of always having to put on masks and barriers and walls all around her.  It was making her hurt all over more and more each day.  The walls that she had put up were starting to close in on her and she had no one else to blame but herself. Her chest felt heavy with so much anger, frustration

I was immensely depressed way back in October 2008.  Ironically, that was my birth month, but during that time, I was in an extremely dark place.  I just wanted to die, but didn't seem to have the resolve to go through it.  So I wrote.  I wrote and I wrote and I wrote until I finally had fucks to give again. The next two essays that I am going to post are from the darkness inside my head back during that year.  I was messed up; completely and utterly fucked in the head, and these writings are illustrations of the vulnerable, broken (like I'm not broken until now...) 28-year old me stripped bare of everything. These are the thoughts in my fucked up (yes, I cannot emphasize that any more than I am physically capable of) head.

There is an inherent danger in assuming that all humans are intrinsically good.  There are some who, by nature, are evil. Demons are an example of this.  Once human, they were - even as children - creatures of havoc, mischief, and malevolence.  They bear death, destruction, and despair in their wake, causing confusion and agony to every creature that they touch.  Thus they were considered as soulless entities (a complete fallacy as every demon you would have the misfortune of meeting would tell you) whose only purpose was to cause pain. When Lucifer was cast into the pits of hell, the malevolent souls of these creatures were cast into this realm with him. His to command and his to make use of. As time went by, some of these demons were allowed to roam the realm of humans.  They interacted with humans and were even borne to humans.  They capture the souls of each unborn child and consume them, taking their place in the womb of an unknowing couple who would then pave the way for t

The art of writing For most people Is the pouring out of emotions Through a pen To a piece of paper For me The art of writing Is breathing life to words To be able to capture the soul The pen is just an instrument You use to create a whole new life A different world A parallel dimension It’s not just an escape But a journey Through lands made up of minds, Emotions Ideas Life A life that I myself created A universe where I am God As God had done I give my creations my own life Breathe into them my own breath And after writing down a piece I put my pen down And enjoy the high Of being able to create Of experiencing being God Of feeling more alive than I had ever been

Recently, my brain's been a muddled mixture of "what if's" "maybe if" "should I" "I really shouldn't" and "fuck that's" and it's been a dizzying emotional rollercoaster that gets quite exhausting after a while.  As a fan of the "It gets better" motto, this shouldn't really bother me that much, but surprisingly, it does.  To say that I'm confused would be the understatement of the year.  Lost is more appropriate, I think. Whether it's with work or life, I just feel lost.  Not empty, mind you.  Just really freaking lost.  I miss those days when I'd just got to Starbucks and people-watch while I sip my frappucino, chain-smoke, and type a blog entry furiously on my phone so I can immediately post something when I get home. And this blog entry just made me realize that maybe I should do that today...well, tomorrow, maybe, not today.  Definitely before I go back to work on Thursday.  It might