I used to come here, when nothing else made sense.
I would come here when everything began to make too much sense.
I have a problem, I breathe in every movie, every song, every novel and make it about me. I can't function without the arts and I inhale them to the point that the boundaries get really blurred. A TV show doesn't just stay that - it takes on a life of its own, inside of me. I am therefore constantly living so many lives, I am so many people, all in one. I don't know who exactly I am because I find parts of me in everything I read, watch or listen to. They inspire me and I feel like I inspired them in some warped way. I know not every story is about me but I sure know how to find me in every single one. Every story that means anything to me, becomes me.
I stopped coming here because it gets too much. It gets too much to live and breathe and be inside my head all at once. It gets too much to write about you, or him or him. But it gets too much to not. It never makes sense like it does in this fleeting moment, and before I know it, in the blink of an eye, it's gone.
I can pick up the phone and try to explain it to you but you wouldn't get it. Because I don't get it. How could I? How could you? How could anyone ever understand the tiny self-destruct button that I have inside of me and that only I have access to, and that only I know the triggers to. And yet, with this knowledge, I trigger it because that's what keeps me alive.
I'm a complex person, really complex and yet sometimes my needs are simple. I guess it's the simplicity of these needs that I'm trying to outrun. I can't be just ordinary, I want the different, the spectacular. But maybe the ordinary is the spectacular.
It's funny because sometimes I know I'm over-complicating it all. At others, I'm not so sure. I'm just stuck in a limbo with no escape because the limbo is my own head. I think pain is so very important to my existence that I don't know how to live without it. It's a part of me.
So I keep creating more. There's been so much pain that a life without it seems incomplete. I know how ridiculous this seems but pain is more familiar than happiness. And so I go on finding new ways to ensure there's always room for more.
So good luck to you if you're reading this. You're stuck with this me - and I'm a true masochist.
I would come here when everything began to make too much sense.
I have a problem, I breathe in every movie, every song, every novel and make it about me. I can't function without the arts and I inhale them to the point that the boundaries get really blurred. A TV show doesn't just stay that - it takes on a life of its own, inside of me. I am therefore constantly living so many lives, I am so many people, all in one. I don't know who exactly I am because I find parts of me in everything I read, watch or listen to. They inspire me and I feel like I inspired them in some warped way. I know not every story is about me but I sure know how to find me in every single one. Every story that means anything to me, becomes me.
I stopped coming here because it gets too much. It gets too much to live and breathe and be inside my head all at once. It gets too much to write about you, or him or him. But it gets too much to not. It never makes sense like it does in this fleeting moment, and before I know it, in the blink of an eye, it's gone.
I can pick up the phone and try to explain it to you but you wouldn't get it. Because I don't get it. How could I? How could you? How could anyone ever understand the tiny self-destruct button that I have inside of me and that only I have access to, and that only I know the triggers to. And yet, with this knowledge, I trigger it because that's what keeps me alive.
I'm a complex person, really complex and yet sometimes my needs are simple. I guess it's the simplicity of these needs that I'm trying to outrun. I can't be just ordinary, I want the different, the spectacular. But maybe the ordinary is the spectacular.
It's funny because sometimes I know I'm over-complicating it all. At others, I'm not so sure. I'm just stuck in a limbo with no escape because the limbo is my own head. I think pain is so very important to my existence that I don't know how to live without it. It's a part of me.
So I keep creating more. There's been so much pain that a life without it seems incomplete. I know how ridiculous this seems but pain is more familiar than happiness. And so I go on finding new ways to ensure there's always room for more.
So good luck to you if you're reading this. You're stuck with this me - and I'm a true masochist.
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