I used to feel an abundance of emptiness inside me, I couldn’t dream, I couldn’t think on my own, the door to my imagination was kicked shut for the longest time, I was numb. And I feel like the closest way to describing it is that I was dead inside, I was moving through life without purpose, my conscious was.. I don’t know, faded?
I don’t remember anything from that whole year except from the things I’ve written down. I remember wanting to wake up from that state. I wanted to feel life inside me. I wanted to dream and embody universes inside me.
I wanted to write and make people feel something when they crossed paths with me. I wanted to be an entity ringing with life. And.. I am now. I really am or so I tell myself, just in a bad way.. Nightmares, anxiety, anger, suicidal tendencies, self-mutilation, and the less serious visiting of the dark edges of my past over and over again never being able to let go of them.
I keep telling myself that I’m going through hell, that this is the bad place, I’m paying my dues, And in short, I have chosen to go through the bad first.. and after it.. I don’t know what but I know it’s better. It’s a dream I carry around with me, a fantasy that I’m trying to build.. and I hope I will.
But.. I keep saying, wake me up when it’s all over.
Wake me up when I’m more capable of taking on the bad..
I guess that’s not possible, It’s not possible at all. I can’t travel to that fantasy I crave without enduring the consequential bad place of the present..
Without living this vile journey..
So I’ll just write it away, ‘cause it feels good to let it out..
It feels good to be heard.
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