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Here Comes The Storm
"Car Radio" by Twenty One Pilots
[I've used this song before, I know, but it fits and it's stuck in my head]
I ponder of something terrifying
But this time there's no sound to hide behind
Wednesday June 18, 2014 7:09 PM
It's so easy to push me into a mindset. I guess that proves I'm not as strong as I thought. Still, I can fake it till I make it.
I was stalking a depressing tumblr blog and all of the sudden, all those old, dry feelings came rushing back. I suppose I should've been surprised that they weren't as far away as they should've been, but I wasn't.
I'm bipolar (I guess). My moods change a lot (but does that prove anything?). I get depressed pretty often (I do? I do). Not permanently depressed... (but it's always there, waiting). I still cut (this proves how strong I am. Or rather how weak).
Wanna know a not-so secret? I really miss it. I miss the sadness. Whenever I read about it or see a bunch of depressing tumblr posts, I miss it in a way I can't describe. I tremble from missing it, my head starts to feel strange. I get goosebumps all over.
I think I miss being weak. I miss having to be carried by other people. My mind romanticizes the depression I miss so much.
In reality, when I'm depressed, I'm alone. No one catches me, I just hit my head on the cool, hard ground. No one feels sorry for the weak bitch who cries all the time.
I find that a shame, but I also think it's for the best. If someone was always putting me back together, I'd never learn to do it myself.
I accidently nicked myself shaving. It felt painfully good.
Want to know my favorite part of playing soccer with Laney? Being goalie. Why? I love the pain.
I love pain more than depression, haha. I often think about it. Whenever I get hurt, I think to myself, "WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME?" because I'm savoring it like it's delicious food that I got for free after not tasting it in years.
Pain. It's... delicious. Beautiful. Enigmatic.
(ENIGMATIC IS NOW MY FAVORITE WORD. IT SOUNDS TO ME THE WAY THE DEFINITION OF THE WORD WOULD SOUND IF IT HAD TO BE DEFINED USING SYLLABLES. WHICH I GUESS IS EXACTLY WHAT IT IS. I'M COMPARING THIS TO WORDS THAT DON'T SOUND LIKE MY MIND THINKS THEY SHOULD. ENIGMATIC JUST SOUNDS SO... ENIGMATIC. YOU KNOW, DARK AND MYSTERIOUS AND UNFATHOMABLE.)
I need to throw parts of me away. A long time ago, years ago, I was a piece of art. I slipped out of my own small, warm hands and shattered. I've been staring at the mess I made ever since.
Every once in a while, I slowly bend down and pick up a sharp piece of me. I grip it tightly as I straighten up and then slip it into my pocket. Then, I stare at my hand and get lost in the combination of beautiful blood and wonderful pain.
I hope that someone will come along and drop themselves next to me. Then we could pick up the pieces together, occasionally handing one another shards of glass or pottery. By accident or maybe on purpose, we'd both take parts of each other and slip them into our pockets, where each others blood would mingle.
When we decide that parts of us are too small and beyond repair for us to keep, we'll sit together. We'll wonder how we could ever fix ourselves so that we'd be back to normal. Try as we might, when we attempt to use glue and tape to put ourselves back together, we just don't fit like we used to.
I begin to wonder if I should just melt everything down, sand-sized pieces and all, and then make a new me so I could finally be rid of all this trouble. Maybe that someone will think the same thing.
At the same time, I know if I do that, I'll miss the cracks where the sadness could seep through. I'll miss the scars.
Is being broken worth the trouble?
I can't answer that. I can't.
I can tell you that some days I just want to be sad again, sad with other people in the dark, never by myself.
I would be so easy to fall and stay on the ground. So easy. So simple. So quick.
Yet, it doesn't seem to be an option. "Stay strong." No, that quote could never make me stand up straighter. It's cliche, over used, and as meaningless as "I love you" can be.
I'm dark, today. A stark contrast to what I was yesterday: A shining star of sleepy happiness, love dripping from every pore (that sounds kind of gross).
Now I'm thinking of what I think J.D. Salinger would say about me and my writing.
"You're unoriginal. You're a phony, a fake. Everything you write has been done before. Everything you think is a lie. You don't know what you're talking about."
I can't decide if this would make me angry or sad. I guess I'd reply with, "I write what I want to. That's enough for me."
Still, words hurt and that kind of pain, I don't enjoy. Without it, though, I wouldn't enjoy physical injuries.
Both times when I had to get stitches in my feet, bleeding abundantly out of the soles of my feet (haha... my soul was bleeding) didn't really hurt.
You could say it was the shock, but I think I enjoyed those deep cuts. That pain reminded me I was alive.
Anyway, here comes the storm. I found all of my old online diaries (Athena, deadbeforedeath, nothingspecial) and I thought'd I'd post some old entries.
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