::TheAll-TooFamiliarBeginning.::
And i awaken, yet again - but for what purpose ?
Is this what i really want ? What is 'this' to begin with ?
This space, like a whisper in the plethora of infinity that is the world wide web.
And then people will read and say "I thought he was sick of it?"
Sick of what ?
The only thing that i'm sick of is this pathetic dream-within-a-dream status that is my life.
Yeah. Precisely. Same fucking shit, but different day and different person even.
Let me tell you a secret.
I don't even know what i'm doing anymore.
Why am i even writing this ? Who is gonna see ?
I write this without anyone in mind. I write this because i have to. I write this because i know i would write again. I'm sick of holding up what i feel.
I'm fucking sick of being told not to care, and i'm even more fucking sick of being made to feel like i am caring more than i ever should.
Noone will ever make me feel that way again. I will do this, and if you're too lazy to listen or don't want to, then don't tell me not to think about it.
I will riddle myself with all these questions and answers, all at the same time- until my mind will spark off holes in itself.
I actually know how that ingrate-warmonger feels. I know how he feels and felt when he was apparently 'complaining' about how his 'friends left him alone'. I'm not alone, but i'm surrounded by people who have just been swallowed by their own lives.
That is the only reason why i should feel alone - because like a drop of blood in a pristine lake, or a red dress at a funeral ; I am conscious.
That is what he failed to realize.
I don't really know who reads this or who'll end up reading it.
I just know that i had to do it.
spoken. at 11:23 PM
And i awaken, yet again - but for what purpose ?
Is this what i really want ? What is 'this' to begin with ?
This space, like a whisper in the plethora of infinity that is the world wide web.
A house, a home - To call my own ?
And then people will read and say "I thought he was sick of it?"
Sick of what ?
The only thing that i'm sick of is this pathetic dream-within-a-dream status that is my life.
"Same shit, different day." - Taken from Stephen King's 'Dreamcatcher'.
Yeah. Precisely. Same fucking shit, but different day and different person even.
Let me tell you a secret.
I don't even know what i'm doing anymore.
Why am i even writing this ? Who is gonna see ?
I write this without anyone in mind. I write this because i have to. I write this because i know i would write again. I'm sick of holding up what i feel.
I'm fucking sick of being told not to care, and i'm even more fucking sick of being made to feel like i am caring more than i ever should.
Noone will ever make me feel that way again. I will do this, and if you're too lazy to listen or don't want to, then don't tell me not to think about it.
I will riddle myself with all these questions and answers, all at the same time- until my mind will spark off holes in itself.
I am on a path of self-destruction.
I actually know how that ingrate-warmonger feels. I know how he feels and felt when he was apparently 'complaining' about how his 'friends left him alone'. I'm not alone, but i'm surrounded by people who have just been swallowed by their own lives.
That is the only reason why i should feel alone - because like a drop of blood in a pristine lake, or a red dress at a funeral ; I am conscious.
That is what he failed to realize.
I don't really know who reads this or who'll end up reading it.
I just know that i had to do it.
spoken. at 11:23 PM
