I just need time away.. just a break, alone, in peace.. surrounded by light.
But God it pains me so much to dream..
I tell myself that I can learn to love the darkness ‘cause it’s inescapable, and it’s inevitable.
In every way, it is.. and I’m in pain.. of the frustration, of this guilt, I can’t run away from what is sealed onto my human form, from what I might have carried for an eternity of several lifetimes.
I don’t know for sure what I have.. But I know that the demons of depression have taken over my body and locked my soul hostage.
And the war between my fire and their frost never ends, it quiets down some days, but you just know they’re scheming for worse..
But my spirit never gives out and the war never ends.. And I keep swinging between long periods of depression and what you can imagine is the complete opposite of it.
I have a lust for life inside me that never went out, and it kept me going. And I’ll keep going ‘til my legs give out.
I have faith in myself.. and that is me being naive and believing in something. But I don’t give a fuck ‘cause I want this and I can’t deny myself the choice of trying.
I cannot deny my own impulses.
It’s a part of me, and my body doesn’t see it as an ill limb. This is just the way it is.
But God.. is this my normal?
Some days I wonder.. what went wrong?
Could this have been avoidable?
‘Cause if it was, maybe there’s a way out of it now?
Is this ultraviolence so fuckin’ necessary…
But.. thinking like that, drains me.. I can’t live while thinking like this, all the doubts and what ifs. They’ll twist my soul into something unrecognizable and she has been through enough.
And sometimes I think it is that way because deep down there’s a thought bouncing around in the dungeon with me.
That I’m damaged beyond repair
Pain is something that you can get used to.
A thousand razors poking at my heart and one sliding its blade across my arms.. and I’m used to it.
The blood oozing out.. it looks so beautiful and hurts so good. The release and the relief that it brings me.
Doesn’t mean it hurts any less, it’s just that now.. the wailing is a little quieter.. more hushed.. and the writhing is unseen by others.
And somehow.. making peace with the pain is a way to make it less controlling of me.
I can be freed of it somehow.
And it is a proof that I am real.
The only way I know how to not let the darkness beat me, the only way to hide away the notion that there’s no getting out of this, is by keeping up the fight.
And I dream about the odds one day being in my favour..
I write it all away.. I write it all into existence. That to me is.. a form of twisted art.
And art doesn’t always have to be pretty.
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