Playing hangman with numbers.

Erm. I don't know where to start. I know how this is going to end though. Alright. Organizing thoughts. Go.

Every time I visit this blog to write a woeful scribble of what my mind perceives as "Life", I fall in a certain nostalgia of passed times. Different visions of what weights on my shoulders, what chains me down to the cement and beats me into a pulp-like creature that moans in horror to a soulless crowd of "Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi" chanters. Every time I visit this blog, blackening these imaginary pages gets more difficult, as I am getting older and that writing has become something more than just yelling insanities at the world. Its easy to sell diarrhea at the price of mud, but you need skill to pass it off as truffle oil. Or really dumb customers. Made me realize that I can only write when I've been heartbroken, as I don't really give a fuck about anything else. That's why I never was a good artist and why I always cultivated a certain hatred for Mozart's works.

This insomnia thing is making me indifferently emotional, or so to say, stably on the edge. Life has become a big boiled-up bowl of porridge, and porridge SUCKS. Usually I only have to deal with one emotion - sorrow. A tar ball tearing up your insides. A lead anvil that you have to heave everywhere you go. But for some reason, my heart got tired of always getting the same type of misery so the little red pumping bastard introduced anger and fear. I am angry at myself for letting such opportunities get killed by the obvious mindless behaviour that I used, my inability to look at the big picture and assembling all of the puzzle pieces together for that final Eureka before I'm done pummelling nails in my own foot. A prickly shard covered in capsaicin stinging every joint in your body. A teeth-grinding fire scorching your gut every time you think about her and how you failed. Then fear. I'm alienating myself from people nowadays, numbing the beast knocking in my chest by reducing stimuli that can remind me of her. Afraid of sleeping due to the nightmares where you hear her silence and smell her absence. Fear of going through the same pain with another person and losing the ability of living in a society for months to come. A cold wall built with the gasps for air I whispered when I would escape from my haunted sleep. A weather vane pointing at everything you love or loved, only to pull you away from them. Sorrow, anger and fear are the three ingredients to make a man lose his sanity. It is hailing memories of a past time in my heart, and every shard of ice is a reminder of how I fucked up. How dreadful it is now that I fucked up. How fucking stupid of me to have fucked up. And how I will never ever want to fuck up again, no matter the cost - even though it means complete isolation.

Anybody ever noticed that life is based on the gradual loss of faith? You start off young too - losing faith in Santa Claus would be a good example. Then losing faith in the whole "My dad is the strongest" self-assigned myth. The loss of faith in education, the survival of the environment, the government, the good nature of people, the existence of an afterlife, the attainability of happiness, the nature of love, the whole point of life, etc. Ignorance is bliss by shielding yourself from this everlasting destruction of the dreams built by a younger self, the painful realization that nothing will ever be as you like it, as you emote drama shows on TV or rethink the lyrics of that song that you listen to when you're blue. It hits you - nothing makes sense, nothing is worth anything. We are all free to obey fate. For a moment there I lost faith in women and love, and its a hard blow to your life when the reason you're breathing is now choking you out. I went through complete insanity for days at a time, drinking myself to sleep to avoid the thought of lips smeared against mine each time I closed my eyes. To actually force one self to have the thousand yard stare to stop imagining eyes staring back with a smile. I felt the tapeworm of addiction in my brain, digging into my soul, making me worthless and crushed by reality. I looked at people with a glance of bottomless shame, having failed my purpose at making someone else happy. Never consider me as a lover, consider me a servant, or should I say a slave to your wishes. I shall never miss you, I shall miss having a purpose in life - being next to you.

I cannot really remember the last time I was blissful. Certain memories come in mind, but all of them splinter my heart - they date back when I thought someone was walking next to me in life. They were a reason to actually wake up in the morning, because what am I going to do alone? Cower, complain, hate, and have the weight of what I could've been on my shoulders? I don't really know if I actually love people or if I love loving. Love is like propaganda, the feeling is there, but you have to assign a face to it, an opportunity to demonize the feeling with eyes and a kiss that you've forced yourself to forget. I started missing something that I cannot even grasp anymore, an absurd portrait of what society has presented me as love. On the other hand, every time I see her I still feel like a sunken ship, and putting on a plastic smile to deal with the loss, like a grotesque party where everyone is a monster, and you're the only one to arrive in a human costume. Emotions are comparable to atomic bombs - countries are ashamed of having them. Dismantle and destroy the one weapon that could harm humanity as a whole. Bury it deep where nobody will ever see it again, and shun those who wear these bombs on their sleeves.

This isn't an essay or anything, its just something I do to rationalize my thoughts, and battle my insomnia. I still toss and turn while thinking about mementos of another time, battling the expectations and the realities in my head like a never-ending chess game. I am stuck to my habits, clinging to the same details that failed me in an earlier life. I still cannot stare in my own eyes without looking away, or thumping my head against the mirror, regretting something, but what? I'd gladly give a heart to the robot and a brain to the scarecrow, but still cower with the lion. Some thought I was some kind of artist, a person full of imagination and feelings and ideas, able to render life as I see it. No - I just turn colours into different shades of grey. I am no emo kid, I was a dreamer. Now the only dream I have is waking up. Still I exist, and therefore have to spread this parasite that I have in me, or find a cure for it. If you see a girl that can paint my soul back into a Darjeeling Limited, send her my way. She'll come back humming to the colours of Casablanca.

-Jack-

P.S.: Miss you, whoever you are.

P.P.S.: SUCK IT UP FUCKTARD.