2004-04-02
Because...
To wake up each day and truly believe that next time will be different, that next time will be for good. My eyes feel sore from so many shed tears, and the knot in my throat has been there so many times.
What am I going to do, if not drown or die like this...if I could articulate this pain, I would. Words simply can't do that, and feelings are much too deep, too strong, too intricate to be expressed with words.
Tell me what it's like to be so young and so lost--God, I struggle, and fall, and dust gets clotted in my eyes as I release muddy tears. Now cries and screams of frustration won't do it, and writing won't do it, and death won't do it, and I don't know what's wrong. My heart wants to break out of my chest because it beats with such painful intensity, and I don't know who I am.
But I'm human, and ultimately, I need to believe and lie to myself. Afraid that I will become lost once more, and this time, I won't get out...
Corrode my insides and make fjords that will be hugged by the river of tears. I don't want to live, because I'm a coward...because it's what I have become, because reality is too painful, because I can't look at myself, because I can't make myself anymore promises of a happier life, because I'm tired, because everything hurts.
This world was never for me, and I was foolish to think I could live in it. I don't feel normal, I'm not normal, and what made me that way?
When claws scratch your gentle soul and you sit on the edge crying and heaving convulsive sobs. When you become so tortured and relief is so beautiful that you want to hold on to it. It doesn't last, because everything becomes stale...and you become empty. Then I'm forced to choose between two painful things, and it is tempting to stray and look for the easiest way out: death.
I could choose to take things as they come, and I could choose take the painful blows. But the pain is so haunting and immense, that one would be a fool to endure. I try to think and beg at the altar of hope to let me in--but I know better. But it kills me, that I'm only eighteen and have the soul of a long-deceased corpse.
It kills me when people call me beautiful.
It kills me to see the sun rise and feel the wind.
It kills me to be alive and to look forward to something.
Do you want my justification? I will give it to you:
Because once upon a time, a girl was born who cared far too much. Her eyes are pearl-black so that people can't see her dying soul. She bites her lips to keep her pain inside.
Because the girl constantly stands on her toes looking into the horizon, but slowly realizes that it's only a sun, and that everyone else sees the same illusion.
Because her eyes have grown tired of producing so many tears, and her heart can no longer be fixed.
Because she disappoints herself and she knows life's story before it's over.
Do you know what happens when you see a mundane play and your legs beg you to leave during intermission? Or even earlier? Life is a play, and for some it is mundane while for others it is the best ever written.
Life is a tragedy, and to continue to have your soul raped by it, is even more tragic.