The Unbearable Darkness of Being Skye...
Today nearly killed me...
Once an artist - a dreamer, now nothing. Empty. But not.
The creativity is still there, though buried deep. I know.
I'm not, nor ever will be for that matter, used to this
emptiness. I hate it. It torments me, dragging me down into
deeper nothingness, the dark pit of a soul once bright,
As I'm dragged, plunged further and further into the
infinite darkness, I feel sad. I feel regret. I feel pain.
I feel depression. But most of all, I feel blank.
This nothingness drains me.
Tortures me by making me feel less, comforts me in the same
Where is oneself when night and day, sunshine and darkness
and death and life no longer seem to differ from one
Where is oneself when one's feelings differ not in the
slightest when night turns to day?
Where is oneself when one craves sunlight, yet hides from
it in the darkness?
Where is one, when oneself is alive, yet feels dead inside?
Where is one, when the world, reality and consciousness
itself ceases to exist, yet is all that there is?
Where is oneself then?
Possible, most certainly, one is on the brink of madness.
Or maybe, one is sane. So perfectly, terrifyingly sane,
that one has finally surpassed the ability to exist.
But where is one THEN??
Perhaps, in that moment of perfect sanity, perhaps that is
when one realises what has happened.
One realises that all the madness is needed to exist and
that is when one begins to pull oneself up out of the
nothingness, the sanity.
Slow is the process, yet steady all the same.
Slow...slow...until one reaches a certain height, a certain
point in the madness, that one is presumed "sane" again.
And one revives herself, as I do now.
I've returned finally, or am trying to return, from the
sanity they call madness, returning back to reality, to
consciousness, to the madness they call sanity.
This is the revival of my creativity.
I loved him. I really did.
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