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| Tell me what I should do.
Take into consideration perhaps, what would happen should I try. Take into account, time. Our conversation was five months overdue, and I had barely anything to say. Where we were was hardly appropriate. It was something highly personal, for me.
If there was something I would ask, it would be: How would it work? I'll try, yes -- in every way possible. I'll hardly see you. I hardly see you at all even now. I hardly saw you at all before. Things never got better after that walk, because after -- we stopped walking. I'm not too happy around you, because you aren't there with me, nor for me. I'm not saying you don't care. If you didn't care, you wouldn't have asked to speak to me at all. If you didn't there wouldn't be the possibility, of anything -- happening.
Because you can be happy without me. You know, very well, that the only thing that matters to me about you is that you are happy. From day one. That is why I cannot forgive myself for what I did. I betrayed not only you, but what I believed I should have done. If there was anything I wanted to do, it was to ensure that it stayed that way, and that Thursday evening last December I put myself before the one thing I knew from the very day I met you I knew I cared for.
I know it doesn't bother you anymore. I know that you don't hate me.
You know that I can't possibly hate you -- ever.
And what about her? I can barely talk to her because I think I wronged her too. To say the truth, I can hardly bear to be around anyone that cares about you. And that's almost everyone -- including myself. You know very well why I can't. You have other people. You have a lot of people. Tell me something about me that would be worth fighting for to keep as a friend. Tell me why you haven't given up on me yet.
Am I really worth that much to you?
Is it really that simple? Am I really what you want back?
What am I to you? I don't know what kind of a friend I was to you.
If I am what can make you happy, then I am willing to give you everything to make it so.
The only question I really want answered: How happy do I make you to want me back?
I once told you that the only thing that constitutes the people you love is how happy they make you. I always told you that you made me happy. You still do. You always have.
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So then. I found a pic that would go perfect on a shirt when I take AP English.
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Hello all. Yes, I've noticed it's been a while since the last time I've updated, but yet again, I do feel like I need somewhere to spill. This is a new layout: Tomorrow I should. It reflects upon of the most repeated phrases that have gone through my head as of late, and what is special about this particular one is that it has been dubbed the "promise-breaker". For the past few months I had always tried to better myself out of this small hellhole I've dug myself into -- and I have tried hard to get myself out. But I was using a shovel.
Perhaps tomorrow it will get better. The background music is the theme from one of my favorite movies: "Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind". A must-see. It'll make you feel better about yourself.
Maybe tomorrow things will get better. Tomorrow I Should.
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I'm not looking forward to my sixteenth birthday.
Something about this year, has broken me. I'm not too sure what exactly. Well -- to say the truth, I know exactly what it was -- who it was -- but I do not have the courage to admit it. Since the last time I've been here, I had been in the process of breaking down, slowly decaying as things that I valued so much began to crumble under my feet. The things I tried to fix in my hands simply turned to sand running through my fingers. I have never felt such a multitude of emotions in a single year. Or day. Or week. Or month. The span of time that I witnessed this year has become a blur.
The people I call friends used me. The people I called friends to who I sought refuge just end up bluntly. The people I wish I still had as friends are gone. One of them I had scared away. Family is a soiled sheet, now stained with the aftertastes of my prior shortcomings. I don't look forward to my sixteenth birthday.
It's supposed to be a celebration of my existence. My being, by the people who appreciate my presence. I'm not sure if anyone will be there. I might be forced to encounter people I have hurt and feel ashamed of, people I wish I still knew, people I thought I knew to help me that naively stumble across to sway it. And the one person that I fear being there most, I must say, is myself. Because I would like to think I don't deserve that kind of suffering in memories anymore. I would like to think that perhaps my trials are finally over. My birthday is supposed to be of joy. Of laughter. Of friends and family and food and drink. I -- remember the last birthday party I was at. I am so afraid of the time that the same incident will happen again.
My grades have dropped significantly. Not because of difficulty, but of lack of will to do better. My optimism is shattered. The things that made me happy are gone. The only option is in sorrow. I tried to sacrafice my hobbies in art to better myself with the people I thought I could love. It was an unfair bargain. Where did it start? Nine months. When did it finalize? When I said I hated the people that cared about me. What was the result?
There is no incentive to live.
Everything has changed for me. I never thought that the people I loved so much could turn to such shame, guilt, hatred, disgust, regret, and sorrow. Not to me, but somehow for me. My days are simply routine blurs. Sleep, toil, regret, toil, regret, toil, regret, sleep. It's an endless process. How cruel is it to have the people you now wish you never had to see again celebrate your existence? How much I wish I had never had done. How much I wish I still had. Forgive me.
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| Can the ingenius be required to lose their sanity? Is the rush of hysteria a prerequisite to that of a higher mental state? Or is it simply a product of the contrary? I have discovered the morbid and brutal consequences of hesitating. The hard, cold, bitter clang of the bars and chains binding people from what they need and desire most. I have truly been at the brink of insanity today. My demons have come against any form of resistance or attempted blockade set up by a persistent mind. They have come, but at the cost of their entimed welcome, they wreck havoc among their host's house. They feed on the heart. They rot you from the inside-out, slowly chipping you away until you reek with the crevices of their deviousness: sodden, dripping, crusting, melted, and lost. But my demons are one of a kind. They sprout not from hate, nor borne from Envy, but spawned from the most blessed of all things: Passion -- and the absence of it. It is an unbelievable suffering. I find myself going out in the dark, walking down the narrow streets, leaking the blood of angels, pouring the rain of Gods, but still torn between holy liquid and the cruel cackle of Weavers. It's absurd, yet hilarious because of how deepingly saddening it is. It is cruel. To laugh at the realizaion that you are plagued with the absence of your sanity. To lose your sense of reality, to become at loss with yourself. What happens when the heart stops? When we can't love, and the walls held up by affection collapse and let our demons run free? We do not die -- what happens is truly worse -- we lose our soul. The ability to be at one with yourself, that the great being inside every one of us becomes lost in an even vaster void filled with the Furies of our past, present, and future. We become torn , no -- RIPPED -- apart between our decisions. When we are unable to make decisions, when we stall the course of Fate, gods and demons, furies and angels, encircle the soul within us and slowly wear us down with the sheer presence of their wrath and power. With great passion comes great good and great evil. All things come with good and bad entities, even manifestations of Good itself.
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