It feels as if there is no one around me. No comfort in sight from the heart breaking pain.
I am left alone, cheated and melancholy. Visions from scenes Iíll never forget as if I was the one acting them out, against my conscious and my conscience. I canít ever live up to that standard and it isnít in me to try. Not anymore. I am a mirage of my former self, something less than me. I donít think that I could ever be the same after seeing that fantasy world that is dipped into so frequently. There is no pride left within me, only questions of the grandeur I thought I might one day obtain. Accordingly, I will never be enough. Just as I have never been enough for anyone who has been in my life. There has constantly been someone greater, someone more in tune, and now these images alone seemed to have replaced the real me and I long to fight my way out of the pit Iíve been placed in by this horror factor. Everything has changed. I canít look at a simple image without visualizing the perverse reflection of a sexual experience. How could a person long for something so repulsive, so contradictory to what is good and pure? A poorly kept secret reveals itself for what it truly is, an addiction. It must be wrong of me to want to be enough, to be the addiction myself. Itís always so hard to live up to this likeness that seems to be some version of admirable. There is no release from the sadness that is overwhelming me by the second as I stare into space. Even in the void, there is nothing for me there, nothing to create, nothing to see, nothing tangible to grasp. Once upon a time there would have been strength enough in my body to struggle for my passion, but not this time, not after all this time. This is no temporary battle; this is the Hundred Years War. I wonít live to see the end of this. Maybe it will be my end, or at least the end of something I hold very dear and often define myself by.
I said I would never be defined by the person that I love and I have gone against my own desire and found myself constantly referring to the ďusĒ rather than the I. A lost identity now floats in the gaps around me, impossible to catch. Sometimes I donít even want to catch it, but others I run after it screaming for it to come back to me and take me away from this sad state Iím in. I run into the distance praying not to feel compelled to return, but within hours my feet bring me back the door step of my despair. Maybe its loneliness that Iím frightened of, the possibility of not feeling loved. The soul pours out happiness, but lingers in itís remorse. There is no light to focus upon, only darkness that will envelop me. The constant shame I experience at the hand of false images, creates a self doubt that is unsurpassable by my feeble self esteem. I wallow in this muted self-hatred.
I wonít stare at that god-awful ceiling anymore, praying for some sort of relief from that rough texture my fingers canít reach. Physical pain would be a release at this stage of the mental anguish. The body trembles searching for sleep, or any sort of reprieve. Words that need to be spoken remain at large in the silence. This space between us grows larger by the second but my passive nature doesnít allow me the attempt to breach it. Itís been days since I have functioned properly. The irregularity of this new schedule threatens me with collapse, I frighten myself. I am not scared of that inevitable breakdown, I relish in itís enmity. As daylight begins to break, the prospect of another beginning comes into view, but by midday the hope is gone and I am sunk back into the routine Iíve come to endure. The remainder of a restless day is now all that lies ahead. Alone, together: my own personal oxymoron. It seems an oxymoron, yet reveals itself each day to be an item in the routine. A small fight, a blow up, a careless word, something brings to light.
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