Thoughts

I am ready to die. I long to fade, to be erased by the artist, not as if I was a mistake but an erasure of grace of the realization that I do not belong here. One that is removed because the ugliness of the whole demands the removal of all that is beautiful and pure. I dread the rising of the sun, the setting of the moon. The emptiness that I feel, the existence of me and yet at the same time the absence, has me weary with the search. The walk demanded of me is an impossibility, I am a being ill-equipped for earthly existence; a member of a forgotten species, an abandoned creature on a hostile land. I hurt so bad that breathing is like inhaling acid and the beating of my heart is a nail driven into my soul. I hate all this life demands of me, the work I must do to survive that seems to come so easily to others. I hate them for that. For the illusion they put forth, the ease at which they walk around, the smiles they have, their laughing, their happiness. I resent them their lives, I hate the very fact that they live. I wish privately to kill them all, to rip the smiles from their faces, to infuse their souls with my pain until their eyes reflect my agony. I want to hold al their pain and weigh it and call it excusable, dismissable, horrid excuse for pain. I want to make them suffer and die slow deaths. I want to record their screams, paste up pictures of their writhing bodies and laugh. I want to see them smile then, to mock my pain in the mist of feeling it. I want to force my agony on them and hear them laugh then. I want to slaughter all they love, to rip away all that they hold dear and count their tears. I want to bathe in their blood, wear it around me like a scarf, dye my clothes in it and parade in front of them. I want to mock them, call their pain insignificant. I want to strike them down in the time of their greatest joy, to remove all that can cause joy, to strip away hope and see how they act then. To see them damage and alone and begging for death and then I will deny them it, and smile.

I hate life. I hate the effort it demands of me. I struggle day and night to do the very thing that seems to come so easily to everyone else- live. I grow weary of the effort. I'm tired and anxious. I spend all day trying not to think. I sit and let my mind alight on something, anything but me. As soon as my mind turns inward I am faced with two options, dive into pain and self hatred, or start up my imaginary world, my self constructed world that prevents my mind form finding the truth, the pain. If I keep it busy enough I won't feel the pain, that dull ache that eats me alive. When you have to debate over whether you should draw your next breath, is it really worth it? If it takes so long to get out of bed that the moon is up and you can't tell if it's been 24 hours or 2 since you went to bed, should you get up at all?? When you soul cries for relief and your mind screams for death, should you deny it? Is that in it self ethical? I want to hide. I refuse to be part of this mess. It hurts too much. It takes to much effort to live, to much thought, to much pain. What's in it for me? I know where my reward lies, why wait? Would a loving caring God really damn a soul to hell for putting itself out of its misery? They allow the humane deaths of terminally ill patients, people who have lived with pain for, what, two years, three, ten? How does that compare with my WHOLE life?? My whole life I have put up with such pain and agony that all I can do to stop the excruciating pain is to cry, and cry, and cry until there is nothing left but pain and no way to get it out. I am alone. ALONE. Abandoned on a canvas that is not my own. These people do not understand me, nor I them. I stand a granite stone in a marble quarry, and cactus in a rainforest. I am shunned and hated, no matter how hard I try to be liked, accepted and loved. I can't understand, their hate hurts. It burns into my soul like acid, it etches and scars my heart until I am unable to love, but still able to care. What a curse! I need the very people I despise. I hate these beings and all they stand for. I hate what needing them means. I crave their attentions, approval, acceptance, and yet I never receive it. I have stopped trying. I have stopped trying to live, to get up in the morning. If my muscles grow so weary and weak from crying they can no longer pull in a breath, I will not remind them. My body, my very essence cries for relief. Let there be an end to this madness. When will the celestial bodies stop trying to shove a round peg in a square hole? I do not fit! I never fit! I never will! Leave me alone, let me die in peace, let me fade away into nothing, let me melt. I care no more for living, I desire no more to eat, or drink. I've stopped looking for things to make living easier, and have started looking for things to stop the pain. I'm scared. How is it I stand alone in a world of over 6 billion people, and yet the only thing that eases the pain is seeking out a sanctuary away form them? I need them, yet I hate them, I crave them, yet I reject them. There is no peace, no cure.

To be, or not to be: that is the question
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.--Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd.

Aw, and there it is, however what Hamlet lacked, I do not. I fear not what comes after death, or do I? For something keeps me from it, God help me if that too becomes too little a fear in the face of a growing tidal wave of pain.

I feel so alone. So crazy, like a tiger locked in a two-foot cell, like pacing is all I can do. I can feel it welling up inside me, and I want to scream or yell, do anything to let it out, and yet at the same time I seem oddly unable or ill equipped to do that. It hurts my mind, my head, my heart. My soul aches with the weight of it and I cry because that is all I can do. I want to rip out my guts, to find the thing that hurts and destroy it, even if that means destroying me as well. I ache, the terrible pain will not come out, can not be rid of, and I hate that. I hate knowing it will be back, knowing that tomorrow, or the day after I will fight this demon again, and lose again, and that almost makes getting up the next day impossible, inconceivable. I resent the sun it's glory, it's happy sunny days. I want to cut the pain away, to throw it in a fire and watch it burn away. I hate the growing nothingness that devours me whole. I hate the way I feel, so out of control, as if this road leads me to one place only, and once I'm there I have no control over the outcome. Why is it that everything that eases the pain is so bad? I'm so tired of feeling this way, of hating myself, of breathing, and crying, and everything that I do day in and day out. It takes all I have to get up and anything more is like asking a horse to take to the sky, I have no more left. I'm so pleased when I can draw up enough to shower, or clean, or move, let alone go out. I feel so broken and alone, and afraid. I frightened of my future because for once in my life I don't know where it is. I'm scared that I've ruined my life, passed by opportunities, closed doors, and burned too many bridges. I suddenly feel the weight of my reality and all it means, and I've found myself lacking in all that I do. I feel so locked in and so very afraid, I once had the world, and know I only have the grave. Once I shunned the world, longed for death, but at the same time I knew in life I could go places, do things. Now I can't, I am limited my forces I never knew before, and the thing that scares me the most is that it's me. I am the one, or my mind is. I am restrained my mind, by the drugs I have to take, by my choices and I never thought of that before. I feel so alone. I feel like a distance star, floating alone in the night. One that no one sees- out shined by the rest, far to far away from earth to be seen. I feel so hurt. To hurt to even describe, or know how too. I feel cut so deep that the very center of who I am is destroyed. I know no way to make me better; I have come to the realization that I can not be fixed, and that fact hurts even more. I feel so confused. The very thing I fight is wrapped in mystery, for I fight my mind. That hurts the most, that I am the one causing the hurt. It's not someone else I can blame, point my finger at, sue, or even name. I am the one who causes my tears, I am the one to blame. I have no answer for that. No way to defend against myself. The only way to stop the pain is to stop my mind. The only way to stop my mind is to destroy it. What if it is my soul? Will eternity be this? Will this be my hell? Isn't one lifetime enough? How much pain can one person handle? As surly as there is a God, one would hope his mercy would allow one some peace, even in hell.

I dream a lot these days. About everything and nothing in particular. About what it feels like to die and live and walk and fly and than I think about nothing and what that makes me. Being nothing. I am what I have made myself. . Indestructible, all-powerful, all knowing, the sickest, the poorest, the saddest, the most hurt. I have lived on the edge. I have said that I was never enough for my father, in truth, I have never been enough for myself. I have never been smart enough, have not made the MENSA list, I cannot fly nor morph into an animal, I can not move objects with my mind, I am not the person who has felt the deepest pain, I have not seen all the loses in the world. I have felt the pain, it has been real, as real as any other, but I have not been the extreme. And I wanted to be. I needed to be the perfect, the worst, the most everything. Anything. Instead I have been nothing. I have gone from everything to nothing and that, more than anything, is what gets to me. That I do not fit. If I was going to be different it was going to be an amazing difference, and huge stand out difference, and one of a kind make people stare difference, instead it is in fact that I am normal. As normal as a unique human being can get. Yes, I have been hurt, and I do not think or act like other people, but it is not for the reasons I desired so much. I wanted to stand out to the world. To be a SOMEBODY. To be the ONE. The only one. I have in fact found myself in a crowd of people who hurt just like me, walk just like me, dream just like me. I am not unique, not in the ways I wanted. I fit�the one thing I thought I always wanted is in fact the one thing I never did. I needed to be more than the others, stand out in big ways, I craved the attention that I demanded as The One. The awe all the normal people would feel, I wanted to be in charge, or at least in control. I wanted to move people in their lives and their emotions, to demand their respect and awe and make them hurt or laugh or something. I wanted the pedestal, not just the world, the universes, I wanted nothing less than God hood, and that is just what 'Neurozool' is, a God, one of my mind, of my making, she is The One. She is all I wanted�and I've finally found that goal unobtainable and unreasonable. I have unfortunately found myself a human, a lowly person without stature or awards, a person who is limited and largely unknown, and I now need to except that and embrace that truth. It is a hard one to believe.. simply because I am a dreamer and have been for all my life. I am human. Welcome human race to my world, may yours be kind to me.