The Eternal Stranger

     Impression. Something I’ve been keenly aware of recently. Something that was forced upon me, in my face, impossible to ignore.
     What one says, the way they say it, how they sit, speak, and appear as they absorb who you are. Or perhaps they aren’t absorbing at all. I may just be some minor supporting cast in their life. Some random and absurd comic relief.
     I mock everything, yet despise feeling mocked. I begin to see myself in a new light. I’m the creature that takes nothing seriously, but wants to be taken serious. I find myself disgusted with who I am, and angry at the person who has become this momentary mirror.
     The form you take in my mind is unfair. The emotions and assumptions I put on you are not right. But they are real to me, and cannot be ignored. Life proves brutal once more as the love and pain of my past mix into a brutal cocktail of present perception. Impression.
     I assume you don’t know love as I see it. I assume you don’t feel pain as I have. I assume you will never know who you are, who has so haphazardly twisted up my past experience, my current hopes, and my so clearly uncertain future. I find myself curious if you will read this, and more curious still who will read this and think it them.
     I feel so very real, while wishing I could feel new again. Fear prevails.

Revenge, Redeemer

    This morning I read an article about a man who walked into a Delaware courthouse and killed his estranged wife.  This is the reason I feel my story must be written, this is the first tale worth telling, because it needs to be told.
    I know how it feels, to be so desperate, to have tried so hard and have it all be for nothing.  You feel so powerless, despair grips your heart, panic seeps in as you realize that what you had, loved, and cherished is no longer yours.  You’ve been wronged, rejected, and insulted.  And then the rage comes.
    It’s so blinding, it burns so hot.  Suddenly there is nothing left in the word but your anger.  You know that no one will give you justice, and so you must take it!  Retribution paid in blood, someone must hurt as you are hurting.
    And, so often, it happens.  One kills, to avenge their murdered heart.  But there is no such thing as justice.  Your heart won’t heal, you won’t get your life back, the things that have happened cannot unhappen.  All you’ve done is spread your pain like a disease, to others who will spread it themselves.
    So what do we do?  How do we hold ourselves back in the face of extreme, overwhelming emotion?  The only way you can, the only way out I found, was to start finding a way to love myself.
    It is not an easy task, at least it wasn’t for me.  Only once I believed, knew, in my heart, that I was worth more than what had happened and those who had wronged me did the rage start to fade.
    It’s not easy, each day a unique struggle, a new battle, but I fight for me each day.  My life, my sense of self and value, these are my prizes.  Ones I’ll never let be taken from me again. 

Linear

    Don’t count me down, don’t think me out.  The darkest moments often lead to brilliance.  A dawn without compare.  Awakening to a new world.
    I think it still far off.  The deep dark is here now, it’s a bad time to make decisions.  Whatever turn will be made blind, or stay the course, and run full force into the next roadblock.  Got to keep moving, either way.
    I often want to  flee very far away, to an unknown, where I too am unknown.  A place where everything can finally be fair like that.  A place I can sort through some of this mess.
    At night I love to be called crazy or weird.  In the day it stings my heart.  These are the thoughts, free flowing, releasing, becoming something for the public eye.
    This is my therapy.  This is my line to god, the beyond, heaven and grace.  

    Don’t stop writing, boy.

This Is Not A Cry For Help

    I sat here for a long time, trying to find the words. Those perfect words, the ones that will explain it all and make it seem unique and beautiful. But I can’t find them. They aren’t within me, so instead just the honesty.
    I fear I will never heal. Sure, I have grown and changed, and I’ve moved on with my life, but there has not been healing. I cover it up with smiles and laughter, drinks and revelry, yet it aches beneath the surface. A year and a half later, I remain a sad wreck in my private moments.
    I’ve been told it is good, these feelings. It means my love was true, pure, and unconditional. It’s not comforting, though, and I begin to wonder if the man who could love like that hasn’t now died. The hope for love and lasting happiness has faded. All I seem to be capable of now is chasing distraction while I wait for death.
    Death. I think about it a lot. I at times lust for it. I imagine myself dying. I think about all the different ways I could die, how easy and simple it could be, it could happen at any moment. This is, probably in some sick and unhealthy way, the most comforting thing to me. That one day I will be dead and won’t have to feel ever again. I am so very tired.
    Everything begins to disgust me. Being human seems petty, vile, and worthless. I am equally as disappointed by society as I am by myself.
    I go on, though. I struggle, I bleed, I cry, and I wish so very hard for a coming day when I don’t hate life.