You know you need to rest, but you cant. And you're awake with no definite purpose, doing meaningless activities like writing a blog, or start empty conversations, anything but sleep, when all the cells inside you are longing for sleep. You routinely practice tedious activities. Sit in a class that does not cater to your passion, converse with people who doesn't help you grow, walk straight as if there's no other corner, looking down avoiding everything. Most of the time is "you dispensable fuck you short height trash garbage maggot feeding on the shit that surrounds you burn in hell that you constantly ignite" mood.
'These sounds reflects negative energies passed through my body and mind that day. I always think to be dead and buried from a long time, since before my own physical birth, that I consider an highly repellant act; and that I will only compensate through the supreme act of beauty of my own death. I think that the only way to be into "art" is to overcome ourselves, to go beyond, in every instant, every fuckin' moment of this presumed life. All that I can do is to go beyond,overcome myself and never turn back..leaving at my shoulder all the shit and garbage. From the point of no return I can see the shadow of my corpses and laughing on them.. to laugh and to cry on my own death, on my corpses..'
Today, Sunday, more to Dimday for me, I didn't go outside, not a single step outside of my room. I've been scrolling through volunteering stuffs and an extreme wildlife trip. I just want to be outside, not crowded, nature. Where I can hide in fair weather, as I am the orphan of the storm. I have a list of Why I Am Not Worth Anyones Time, should I post it or nahhhhh <- Lame
"I've wasted myself. I've turned into something I can't control. I'm dwarfed, minimized by everything around me. I'm scared of what's going on to happen next. Any unpredicted movement, any sound I haven't anticipated, terrifies me, lessens me. There's a pair of scissors on the desk in front of me. I'm picking them up, opening and closing them, pressing the rings of metal against my bone. I'm sticking my finger into the blades of the scissors and squeezing as hard as I can. They're dull. They won't cut into me. It doesn't hurt, it throbs, reminding me of the existence of my hand, which disgusts me. I hate my body more than I hate the objects and events that rub against it. I don't despite the conditions of my life as much as I despite the existence of my flesh."
I was clean, for almost a month. Silly me for thinking I was better. No. I had my breakdown again. But no worries though, I'm still this happy girl infront of everyone. Life was okay, normal, which I'm sure it is way normal-er(dict that) than your life. A different kind of normal. Where there's no lights. I've been updating my Fasting Diary, which went quite well, I might post em up someday. I deactivated my Twitter because. Just because. I want to write back. I need to. This is where none of you will judge me, and I'm happy. I don't expect visitor here. You don't need to follow up anyway. Because this is just me expressing myself. Where it's full of negativity, somewhere where you should avoid. Again, I don't need judgepigmental fucktard here please. I had enough.