Vomit
There is nothing beautiful to this. All this personal pain, it has no interesting cadence or melody, it can sing nothing to the stars. It is useless and disgusting, half-formed desires and ideas, that stink from partial decomposition. A vomit of life.
Why couldn't I stave off caring about you for just a few more moments. It was so expertly wrought, my distance was perfect, and then I began to care with just enough time to be rejected. I take the blame myself, I shouldn't have done anything, especially now and especially towards my normal inclinations. Perfect is cold and alone. Perfect is not "can I see you?"
Really, perfection is death, but I'm starting to really crave that now. The amount of pain this all involves is slowly but surely driving me mad. Not frustrated or crazy but proper mad, where I do such incredibly destructive things that I'm not even sure I should leave the house and should probably be sedated. The trick is not a series of risky decisions that might induce happiness. I don't have that luxury anymore, I don't have any good to bid. The trick is minimisation of pain.
I still hate my life, so please don't force my hand. Don't make me throw this all away. Because I want to. I want to burn every bridge I have and leave and be poor and unknown and alone on the other side of the world. Because at least I wouldn't have to deal with this anymore and there would be at least the possibility of happiness along with this certainty of pain. But I refuse. All this work had to be for something. It has to be. Every morning and evening and afternoon and every single moment I tell myself "You can do this, you can make it work, these things must simply be endured, it will be get better". And, while it may be true (I'm not even sure) it still is hard because joy tastes like shit in my mouth and any amount of honest beauty makes me sick.
Written On: Home Computer