Today, I woke up with the voices in my head screaming for blood. The hunger within is frightening in its urgency. They tell me to hurt myself.
I have nothing left
And all I feel is this cruel wanting,
I have been falling for all this time
And now I am lost in paradise.
Hurting myself has become a premise of such blatant indifference to me that I actually wait for a moment in between, thinking it might make some difference. But today, I asked myself, with my vast faculty for delusion, if such unforgiving indifference might not be a subterfuge for hiding the anguish of love.
“Which do you prefer”, people ask, “love or violence?” I try to smile. What's the difference, really? I believe that only a long-suffering mind will acknowledge the odds of catastrophe in love, even acute woe may eventually vent itself in violence.
When I try to push myself, I get nothing because I can't make myself feel anything. In the middle of the night, I lie there thinking, just thinking endlessly about everything. Every deception, every lie, every stab to my heart. I know if I don't get back on track someway, I will be no better than dead. There isn't a solitary emotion inside me. In the end, you cannot resist the inevitable.
I have forgotten, a lot. How to fight, how to rise, how to live. But I have learned too, learned to fall to dizzying depths and sink to a consummate nadir. I no longer aspire to anything. Even the finer shades of despair are lost to me. The full extent of life for me is a gloomy continuum that runs from gray to black. My life has evanescenced. I scarcely know anything anymore.
I don’t care about anything. And there's emancipation in apathy, a feral, thrilling deliverance on which I almost get intoxicated, and feel that I can do anything. My own indifference chills me to the bone.
I have learned to bandage the wounds up on the outside, but they remain just as raw, throbbing, and deep as the moment I made them, when it became obvious that the only thing I he wanted above all others: to be with you is never, ever going to happen.
Pain, I believe is a part of being human, it can't be escaped. I have learned that because of pain, I can feel. Each slash of the blade feels like a stab wound to my heart, yet at the same time I feel nothing. This nothingness is scary.
The mornings after the self-affliction are the worst. Numbness for the while makes the pain worse when I finally feel it. This slow burning, the dull ache, the flummoxed jumble of thoughts in my head, they make me feel alive. Perhaps, that is why I have to do it: bleed myself.
However, there are wounds that never show but are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds. So awfully that I want to run away, and keep running until the day I can’t feel this pain anymore. But the shadows of your memories, they won’t let me go.
Looking back is not easy, you have to change your whole perspective. As much as I would like the past not to exist it still does. And as much as I would like to feel like I belong here, I don’t. I have been living life in the rearview mirror now. All I can ever think of is you. Nothing more.
My reasons maybe flawed, but you fail to see that they are reasons nevertheless. And I am granted my flaws, aren’t I? After all, I am only human in the end. I hate it when my scars start to fade, because as long as I can still see them, I know why I am hurting.
I don’t know how long now I have been numb. The feelings just don’t touch my heart, as if I am not human. I can’t deny this feeling of hopelessness inside me anymore.
I think you still love me, but I can’t escape the fact that you will never be mine. Deep inside my heart, I always knew this was going to happen. So I don’t blame you any longer. I am not angry, either. I should be, but I am not. I just feel pain, overwhelming pain, so much that I am drowning in it. I thought I could imagine the worst pain ever, but this is beyond imagination, I was wrong.
Happiness is best avoided. It’s either a delusion or appallingly treacherous. Never makes for a strong heart. Insipid too. The hideousness of these scars are what craft my person, mould my soul. I wear them proudly. For they remind me that life is a precious gift.
The only happiness I can find now lies in the stimulants in which I sometimes so recklessly indulge. I imperil life and reason, in the pursuit of peace, a frantic attempt to escape from torturous reminiscences and this unendurable pain. The damage is permanent, there would always be scars. No, time does not heal all wounds, they and the memories remain. Although, with the turn of the clock, the mind disguises the wounds with scarred tissue and the pain fades, all to protect its sanity. But neither the pain nor the wounds ever go away, because the bleeding never stops. That is true pain.
In melancholy, I am only aware of my own existence, in the form of an atrocious egoism i.e. this pain of mine is individual, these veins that mourn and scream funeral songs belong to me, day by day I become a monster. I believe that happiness annihilates us, makes us lose our true self.
Pain is not at all easy to articulate but it’s safe to say what doesn’t kill you mutilates you, cripples you, leaving you weak and pernicious.
I feel the need to bleed, I want to just let it out, alleviate a little yoke from the inside. I smolder and suffer most viciously. Because no matter how hard I try or how bad I want to, I can't escape. The pain hangs about. Bleeding isn’t optional for me. I feel idyllic when I bleed, every time a small droplet of blood escapes from these throbbing veins that pulsate persistently. That one blood drop, that warm, tiny, coppery bead of life is a means of escape. Although it's just a small drop, it is the most momentous thing in the world. Still, it doesn't do a damn thing to fix anything, my head, my life. Does that then signify that I am doomed to this bleeding fate of mine?
The wounds they will never truly heal, nor would I let them. They bleed all over again at the slightest word. I miss you so much that I feel as though I will bleed to death with the pain of it. I am in the depths of despair but I don’t hurt myself because I want to die. I do it because I want to stop the pain.
My wounds are the openings into the deepest and most vulnerable part of me, the part that is tainted with your love. I have plummeted into this bottomless chasm, and I keep falling eternally. I obsess and obsess over you, what I did wrong or could have done differently. It's not like it will change anything. But I can’t stop.
My soul couldn’t tolerate the void left by you. I severely abuse myself and deprive myself of happiness. Pain and violence rush in to fill in that vacuum. When you are deprived of that one thing which means your life, an unappeasable craving for misery takes root. I quest for atonement, trying to find pleasure in meaningless things, in my case it turned out to be wanton drugs and habitual wrist slicing.
It is bizarre how in these moments of tragedy, it all seems so dreamlike. The pain blocks all my sense and leaves me numb. Shock is what I think it is. After a while, the malicious reality starts to seep in and my mind drains it all up until, lastly, there is so much pain inside that I can’t help feeling it again. First, comes the excruciating pain, followed by days of numbness, next the insufferable pain again, and finally, the place where I am now, the penitentiary of everlasting depression.
Every time I am bleeding now, everything around me becomes black... So I slit my wrist and lead my blood astray… The sadism always helps me cope, the blade allows me to fix the circle of hell I have initiated myself into.
When I have hurt myself in the dark, I need to see the scars and scratch them raw again. For the reason that in some shadowy corner of my heart, I half expect to find myself alive and happy. But in the innermost recesses of my mind I know that I am already dead, burnt out inside. I do realize that I have far more in common with the dead than anyone else I know. Self-infliction is painful, you are exhausted by yourself; the worse the despair, the more you just think about yourself and viler you appear to others.
I know my life has become a masquerade, all I need to go on is a razor blade, to give my wrist a slay. You when know the chips go down, it’s best to bleed to deal with the bad hand you have been dealt.
A single lie can change everything. I have pondered over it countless times. I have tried to come to grips with it and failed. All it took was a lie for you to leave me. It stumps me that a few simple words can cause so much devastation. Do I really want to stay on this path longer, knowing it is only going to end in devastation? Yes, because I am damaged.
In the pits of my soul, there is an ache I can’t garb in words, a pain thriving in my heart. Like a lucent veil, there are emotions draped in unspeakable agony. So I make no attempt to hide my pain now. For the rest of my days of this ruthless trial, I must suffer. Every gash, every jab, every cringe, every blinding flash of pain is magnified a million-fold when I think of you. I wonder if it’s all unnecessary, that nobody needs to see me vulnerable and hurt. I am enfolded in relentless remorse, which leaves me bleeding.
Your lips are the last thing I kissed before I bled from my wrist,
I will forever miss you so I did the only thing that I could do.
The life seems colder than ever again, and I realize that I certainly don't matter in the grand scheme of things. Life goes on. I can feel it. I can almost hear the laughter, the sardonic peals of deliverance thrown back at me. I can sense life close, silently watching, contemptuously looking down on me. And it’s cold, so very cold, as it watches me bleeding, marking a slash after slash in my skin, it stands there passively, mocking. I am defeated at the hands of my own cruel fate.
And when this all ends I will want someone to blame, isn’t that twisted?
This heart is a wretched, wretched thing.
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