Treachery...

Within this void, the depravation of soulful feelings, there is a more intense push: An escapist's trick. It removes the meaning of time, and the progress therein. Taking a brash look at raindrops, my place starts to sink in. It's a visceral feeling, to know of my organic needs, and the psychological implementation of my dreams. I would throw my life away if I could feel that connection once more... Just one more time.

Circular memories...

and stillness... and sadness.

Electricity...

Electricity.

Seems like you never really knew me,
Seems like you never understood me,
Seems like you never really knew how to feel,
But electricity, ooh, it drew you near to me,
What you needed was to be rid of me...

And there were times you really made me smile,
And there were times you really made me cry,
And there were times I never really knew how to feel,
But electricity, ooh, it drew you near to me,
What you needed was to be rid of me,
And the fear made you so unsure of me,
What you needed was to be rid of me....

--

There's a hole. A gaping, open space carved out of something. The original substance doesn't matter... only a hole remains. This is all I am, the present. The results of what I've done are here, and I'm staring at the beast, just out of reach. But shackles are crumbling, and everything is pouring in... I am eating myself alive. I am an animal that scratches, bit by bit, until all that's left is a strange, sanguine complacency.

I can't stand this. So long have I hidden inside a tremor, spoken through a filter. I hate my own incompetance, but I'm still living it every day, watching as it slowly takes my life from me. The cuts are too deep, too painful to take. Is purity a lie that is slowly stripped away by the indifference of reality? I feel like I'm doing nothing more than waiting to drown.

I dream of a place so far away that I never have a chance to try to get there, and I can't swim any more. My muscles ache and my heart is tired. All I want is some peace of mind...

Living is so low...

A spasm of inundation: panic's finest form. Reflecting back brings a certain kind of frustration. Nothing can ever be done to bring it back, the innocence and open wonder of growing up.

In that process of distortion, it's easy to see the fascination with polarity. My emotions have been building and building towards something with finality, but without a ceiling or floodgate, it's endless. Every time I venture close to something, I'm uprooted and thrown into a directionless trance. How can I brace myself for the conclusive impact of my own mind? How many times have I found a catalyst, only to be misled from my own purity, the most important piece of myself?

How many times have I asked myself a question that I couldn't find an answer for, no matter how I tried?

You, the prisoner...

The return to purity is much more ambiguous than the mind's conception. It's not a cleansing, it's a journey backwards. To feed the basic structure, and let the details starve to death; within this, progress.

From this low point, I can see how gnarled and twisted branches have become. The roots are earthly, humble and expectant. The third-person omnipotence that acts as a catalyst for change... can annihilate the perpetual manifestation of thoughts that have become so misguided in the course of time.

When I slow everything down to a low, placid hum, the atmosphere clears. So lucid, so very calming, but there is a twinge, a pang somewhere that I have to consciously keep down.

Alone...

When my mind breaks down, it's almost comforting. I return to a place of pure solitude, no matter the surroundings. A fear of life itself sustained by constant self-loathing... but, it's quiet. The rythyms within sadness are slow and melodic. I never wanted to be so familiar with the beat.

But it's who I am. When I am rapid and spontaneous, I stick my neck into a place it isn't welcome. In doing so, I degrade my worth as a person and as a man. I do things unbecoming of me, and am always left out, feeling foolish; like an idiot. Like every action I've done is wrong. Every second that has come before the present is a mistake.

Is this the only way I can survive?

I have a suspicion that I am moving further and further from reality. It's a tingling feeling, like there's something I can't quite grasp...

It's visceral and unrelenting. A slow, methodical pulse that gradually grows in strength. Each piece of me will be blown apart, or they will survive only to hang languidly together... valor grows out of destruction, and then is murdered by the shadow of that plague.

Scared to death...

What do I do now? There isn't a key to find nor a window to climb through. I don't know how to get in...

I would sacrifice any part of my life if I knew it would bring you to me. Why is that? Why do I fight so readily? To take a full breath and release, screaming into the same void that separates my fingers from my dreams.

I'm going to take as long as I need to. I'm going to build a system that makes me work; that makes us work.

But, I can't decipher the "why?". It creeps behind me, waiting for a chance to speak. I need validation... I need to know that it's real.

I'm such a failure. I can't even grasp the things I live for. And, in doing so, I am hurting someone else.

What I fear will happen is I'll return to where I used to be. I don't want that isolation again... I can't take it. It's what probably will happen... it's what always happens. It makes me so angry with myself that I can't think straight.

...In a slow, rolling fog, a door is to be found. I don't know how long I have to search for, but that is my charge, my mission.