xian-ated

I hate you but I need you to live. I only know how to deal with life if you are there, so why are you so far and so near at the same time? I cannot deal with Random Acts of Kindness, Compliments and Caring Thoughts; they are suspect. Beautiful as they are, only Pain can make me feel real. I have been made by Pain, each detail scratched out on the iron ground of my life. Where Pain is always close at hand, Illusion makes Pain easier to take, it becomes more attractive and more desirable. I crave Pain as a redemption, but I hate getting hurt. Drug me till the turbulence of life is over. Drug me to death so that I can take the Pain of living.

I suppose it only happens at night.. When your thoughts are your own and nothing can distract you from them. When you lie awake knowing that you cannot sleep. Suffocated by the dark, yet fearing the dim splinters of light which signal the coming of the day. Another day, and another day's worth of trouble. Numb. Apathy is the word of the day. This is how I will live my life today. Staring at books, articles, papers, notes. Information. Give me anything and more on what I am looking for. Cramming things into my leaky mind. Past success dulls the sense of potential failures. The only thing I want to do, is to succeed. Just this once. After this

I close my eyes and imagine what it would be like if the world were to fall apart around me. I sit in a little bubble, impenetrable. A closed system where exchange of matter cannot occur, and thus falling debris has no effect on me. Nobody can hear me. I can see it, feel it. Burning white ashes falling like snow, skeletons of concrete giants sticking out like broken bones. The rain falls intermittently, rust stained tears with flecks of tarnished gold. Fires that have gone out, never to burn again. The rivers have gone dry for decades; unable to support any form of life since they got clogged up with dead ships and bloated corpses. Bloate

it's dark. just the way i like it. and that's when the ghosts come out. they scare me when they say things about you. they like to creep into my ear and say things. and i like to listen to them because i like being mean. i am terrible aren't i? i'm so tired.. oh, but i'm busy complaining when i am living my nice life here. a really nice life. no reason to complain. just that when i have fallen in pain. all my weakness spilling out of me. it is quite a nice sight don't you think? oh. yes if you hated me and perhaps you might. but i really can't be bothered about all that. sometimes what everyone thinks of me.. yes, it cripples me somewhat.

i can't deal with it, because i don't know how. i don't know how to deal with it. i have no idea what to do. so i get all this pent up pressure inside, i want to scream at them, even though it might not really be their fault. it's only because of my own inability to deal with it. i just want to hit them. first instinct. i want to make them scream for every single scream of frustration that i keep silent. i wish their brains would explode. so wicked. such mean thoughts. now i only have to look at a face and all these negative things, dark shadows creep across my mind, whispering things that i don't want to think about. things that were of

when i see you high up there in the air, among the clouds and the light in radiant splendour, i am blinded and i cannot see your face. build me up support me when the ground threatens to swallow me whole. sow me a seed, grow me a tree as tall as the highest reaches of the heavens: blooming archways of cloud, pillars of sunlight, hung with stars. i sit among them in my towering greenhouse. walls of glass... they do not offer me protection. and now, a new perspective, i can see you. your face right next to mine, i had thought it to be the unreachable sun, yet, what is it? my hopes of being as high as you built me up hi

to you who are no longer here the things that happened when you were alive and i was not yet born. what i do not know of and now never will. information of little importance now that you are gone. yet the lack of it leaves a twinge of bitter regret. words that i write which i think sound good in a bid to console myself. what are words really. they are things that hold no meaning nor power over you, dear dead one who are no longer dead because of Him who went before you and before us all. i am thankful that you are not here anymore in this broken and corrupt world because you have finally gone home.