The pain of being me

the-pain-of-being-me

"What do happy people write about in their journals?"

I guess when I write something with such title I should begin by introducing myself but unfortunately I don't know what to call myself. "To define is to limit." The writer said I am nameless. Call me what ever you like if you think it will make me more human but do not mistake me for a person I am merely a "something I can't quite figure out" embodying a flesh. Always in the act of faking normalcy.

Herr writer I am already tired. Should I sleep or stay awake? My eye lids are heavy and everything hurts when I am aware so I sleep. Sleep is an escape. Herr writer today you write about what we know best. It's the same old song. Once again on this very day we sing about self hate.

Self hate is a prison with guilt as it's warden but luckily you have no inmates. It's not just about wanting to escape your body or your skin. It's deeper, it has triggers and many faces. When ever you discuss such issues it always comes down to "Think positive, work on your mind" all of those things that are easier said than done. But I long for a relief.

Longing is only romantic in period dramas, being free seems plausible when hippies who have dread locks and wear a peace sign preach of it, a better future seems tangible when online self entitled kind people speak of it, hope seems attainable when a coming of age teenager runs towards it and the end seems near only when false prophets scream of it.

I have no idea where I am going with this or where my train of thought is taking me I only know that I am fucking tired of ingesting  a dose of bullshit from "positive people" on a daily basis. It's like mind rape. I am a mere reflection of my writer so do I even count as an individual? Everyone has their own burdens it's for each their own kind of world. I am the self entitled Grinch of everything that is good and happy. Yes, most importantly what do happy people write about in their journals?

For a second there, I want to mute and pause the world around me so that I can contemplate this deeply. The day I finally become happy what happens to my writing? Would I be able to write with out my sorrows? What happens to me if my misery escapes me? I know I am asking the obvious. I know for the life of me that I run away from happiness. Of my own volition and accord I continue to choose suffering over happiness from time to time again. 

The obsessed artist demands his suffering like ink. And the world is his canvas. We create to feel significant. My writer says I am an artist with enough self loathing to destroy me, I am an artist with plethora of emotions bottled up some where deep with in.  I could be expressive of them in a melodramatic way that might make some of you weep but no, that's too basic I am hoping they form themselves in to a stroke and knock me out of it. Life is not for everyone. Especially for characters like me what ever happens, happens. If river flows from my wrist and I drown in it, or if I burn with the rest of the world and perish or if it gets too much and I no longer find it in me to breath that is my tragic end. That is how my God, my maker, my writer intended it.

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