I've undone the beautiful boy. Without meaning to, as usual. I make him feel "inadequate" because he thinks I'm too "brilliant" for him. See? Too good again? Fuck it all. Make me bad! Make me bad! I can't stand myself, really. I can't stand myself. I wish I could have all memory erased. All Vision erased. All my soul erased so that I'm someone else. So that I don't lose people to whatever the hell they think they're worse than. I can't help what I am. I can't help the Madness.
They all "need to fucking hide." They think I'll find someone else. Or they think I'll find them again. All I find is emptiness and the abyss grows larger with each passing moment until the entire world is full of Nothingness and I am alone. Again and again, I am alone. I think I should be the one to hide away. No one to meet, no one to miss when all is said and done. I think I'll do that. Hide away. Stop talking, looking, listening, singing, writing. Writing. I think I'll stop writing and sink into my schizophrenic mind without releasing anything. No one will hurt then. No one will feel inadequate. They won't know.
I'll tell you about the Madness now
I promised you I would
It's everything to do with that.
When I say I'm a writer, I don't mean that it's me. Imean that I'm the raped one. The Art is the rapist. I write nothing. I'm forced to. And for a while now, I've sort of been writing on my own. But the Madness is coming back.
The Ink is coming back. The Ink intrudes as a veil between my eyes and the world, so that everything is made of blackist ink and blackest words in every language said and unsaid. I can only read my own, but I hear them all shouting, incomprehensible to me.
I hear it on the wind and on the ocean. And when the wave of Ink comes, like it did the other night, I have to work hard to shove it aside so I can see everyone and everything in color.
That scares people. at least the people who understand it, because first they're intrigued and then they run away. Like Jeremy. He lost it.
Or if they don't understand, they mock it and they leave me lonely. So either way I hate myself because I'm the inadequate one. The one who isn't human.
On the surface. I know how to pretend.
I'm a mask. A character. Nothing else.
I'm an artist.
I want to be the eye that blinks and make it all full of meaning but in the end I'm empty because nothing is mine.
1 comment:
I know I'd said I would leave comments but I really would rather talk to you about this in person! :-( Not too far off anymore.
I don't think you really hate when people think they're not "good" enough, I think you (at least partly) like it, and agree with your own wonderfulness,but then again that's part of "it all"...
I see shadows and think they're people, when these people really are nothing but shadows. But then I see real souls who think they're shadows, but are really people, and really souls. Which group do you truly believe you fall into? I worry sometimes you don't know, but I know.
Post a Comment