2004-06-04
If Happiness Were not as Ephemeral
I sobbed inside yesterday as the hot tears danced about my face and I made absolutely no noise. What beautiful despair we must all go through, and I feel completely dense with pain.
I keep thinking of that Malice Mizer song entitled "Le Ciel". Other things as well--grey stone drenched with falling raindrops below misty clouds. Sometimes it's like a subtle and saddening opium smoke that lingers about in the ambience.
Today out of all days I felt. I wish happiness weren't as ephemeral. Pain has a voice of its own, and I am forever wondering whether or not anyone has ever heard the enticing whispers. If you have it long enough, it will have a voice that speaks and whispers commands to you at different times. It tells you things--to kill yourself, that existence is meaningless and fruitless, and that above all, you are worthless. Other times, one may drown in their own vast array of contemplations and make reality fade out. Yet, this provides absolutely no comfort. I am moving on in regards to that.
Talking is no longer an option. As I stood there in the kitchen this morning preparing my milk with the Cafe� Vienna mix, I had the sudden urge to hurt myself. My hands, I want to injure my hands. I want to make them bleed because I cannot say what hurts inside anymore--no pointing, no talking. Muted sobs that are much too strong to be described with the feeble essence of these mortal words. Making oneself bleed is another thing--masochism that I would rever in. It sounds appalling and perhaps even sick, yet, at that moment the very thought was all too appealing.
I feel relieved at writing this--I am liberated, these are my confessions.
I simply cannot--with all of my combined efforts--get that idea of hurting myself out of my head. I want to see myself bleed--my hands.
This urge however, was ignored, because I am much too coward to ever inflict any physical damage upon myself--emotional and psychological damage are my domains. Thus, I become angry and this subtle rage consumes me, which alters my breathing and begins to make me sweat. Instead of hurting myself, I begin to want to break something and smash it into pieces.
Then, I calm down and feel proud of myself for not going through and giving into my deepest wants. I become relieved long after that I did not become the puppet of my sick and tormented mind.