Book of Suicide
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2003-02-23 18:41:44 (UTC)

the feeling

it's here again. that godforsaken feeling. that feeling
that you want to vomit. that feeling that you want to cry
for hours on end. that feeling that dominates your entire
consciousness. that feeling that will never leave, only
wane for a period of time before it returns like an
angered, rebellious group of oppressed people. it churns
in your stomach like butter until it's solid with ache. it
makes you quiver beneath your skin, but no one else sees
the quaking. it leaves you cold, cold enough to shiver,
but not to be numb. no, never enough to be numb, that's
not what it wants. it wants you to know that it is the
true power, it is what controls your being, it is what will
choose your fate. this feeling, conquers, controls, and is
all your feelings. everything you've dreamed of, missed,
or hated. it savors every moment knowing you suffer,
knowing that you'll never escape, knowing that no one will
listen to your notions of what's occurring. it grins and
twinkles as it watches you curl up into a pitious mass of
nothing. that's what you are, it says, a pitious mass of
nothing who will never amount to anything. a thousand
knives couldn't produce the pain that this knowing power
possesses and inflicts into you. those knives can't
compare because you can see them, touch them, know them.
but this power, this power isn't visible, nor touchable,
nor knowable, it merely is. knives you may stop, this
feeling, this inkling, can never be captured or silenced.
no, this feeling brews, adding more and more ingrediants to
the pot to forge such a despicable concoction that nothing
dares filter it out, for all that hideousness would leak
out with it spreading the epidemic. this feeling is the
desire of death.

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