becka

My Character Analysis
2004-01-09 02:58:07 (UTC)

A Cutter's Dream...

I started again: the release I need to survive. It's
easier to physically hurt myself, make myself bleed, then
to feel the "white days". It's hard to become numb, but
I'm a professional.
I can't really tell anyone, however. I always think my
pain will reflect on them, or my numbness will hurt them
worse. Sometimes using the silence is the most help I can
give to the people I care about. They don't need my
bitchiness or hopelessness. Not being able to really open
up to the people closest to me hurts worse; I have to keep
it all inside, ignore my true feelings, put on a mask.
Every step I take, it burns inside, yearning to come
out with approval. The secret I bare becomes burden,
weighing against me, testifying against me that I am not
mentally healthy. This hate grows into a conscience
telling me to deepen the wound, and as a result, initially
growing bigger until it consumes me.
Depth comes unimaginably. My breath thickens with each
taste of pain; the blood dripping upon the rags of my
success. MORE, I NEED MORE! Just one more cut...
I finally lay in shambles, continueing to ignore the
truth, that my world is forever gone as I have recieved
it. No more pure happiness in my journey, my mental one at
least. No more love as light guiding me through my darkest
times. Hate strains my last real life I maintain and
gradually seeps up all my grief.
Please, someone, give me life again! I need to live
again! I need hope to live again! So many teardrops...

As a character in my favorite show sang; life's a show
and we all play a part. I use to think this was just a
lyric in one of the songs on one of my favorite soundtrack
cd's. However, I now believe it's truthful. Life has more
daily drama then the best of any of today's shows. People
try to imitate life so much that they make their
characters pain-stricken with hopelessness. And most of
the times they're right on the money. So, the question
becomes, why is life such a bitch?
As time goes by, I feel more and more alone. It's like
as I stay simple old Becka, others surround me with
wonderful change. And it makes me sick to the point of
death that everything is moving forward: my friends,
family, school, but I stand still. Time stands still...
So I write, relating to my feelings at that point in
my, dare I say, history. It might be disturbing and change
peoples' definitions of me, but this is my time to do
something to reserve what's left of my little life.
On to more pressing matters, the bleeding, the only
physical thing keeping my alive. Maybe that's why I make
myself bleed. I want my life to be slain. But if I'm so
obsessed with death, why don't I just get it over with? I
ponder this every night, wondering earnestly when my time
will finally take me.




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