More jabbering about myself. MY PAGE, MY BLOG, FUCKIN’ DEAL WITH IT OR STOP READING, FUCKHEADS!
Those of you who are not fuckheads know who you are.
I’ve been trying to find a way to cope with my “imbalances.” People insist that they don’t exist, but I’m aware of just how unaware I am, and my mind is NOT stable by any means. Is it something that I lack in intellect? Do I require some wisdom that can only be wrought from experience?
Sorry. I’ve been reverting to expressionist painting. Relating my reactions and perceptions to the random shapes of fallen paint. It’s a very therapeutic process, but it doesn’t last for long. As one may be able to tell, this is NOT a moment of clarity for me.
In a way, by going to something so extremely far away from my usual style(s), I’m trying to grab attention. And I do. But I am unsatisfied. There is a terrible greed that engulfs all men, and I am dying to be accepted. I may wear a mask of indifference before your eyes, but by instigating so much conflict with things that remind me of my true self, I am trying to use reverse-psychology through action to show people what I am. If they get the picture, maybe I can finally accept who I am.
Maybe I don’t have to be a scared little boy anymore. The hatred I feel for myself is not for “myself,” but what I’ve turned myself into in order to restore what I think I should have turned out to be at this point.
I don’t know what I’m saying most of the time. What I’m doing most of the time. What’s going on. Where I am. What time or day it is.
I am calling out for help, and I don’t know what to do with it once I get it. For that, I hate myself, and I hate the people who love me for loving me.
I’m so angry.
So sad.
Over what?
What has given me this grief?
I feel an incredible guilt that I am so angry and depressed without reason, while people around me suffer and live on.
This is surely a sign of insanity. Inexplicable emotional imbalance.
Nothing is chipping away at the shell, I’ve just been rotting away from the inside. That’s got to be it.
Or am I so envious of those capable of making due with shit situations that I try to invent a problem for my mind to compete with?
To be or not to be, that is the question; whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them.
Oh, fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Tell me that there’s something wrong with me.
That I’m crazy.
I’m stupid.
I’m ignorant.
I’m selfish.
I’m a waste.
I’m a disappointment.
I’m pathetic.
I’m not worthy. For anyone. Especially not you.
And say it for my art. My work. We are the same.
Tell me that it’s crazy.
Tell me that it’s stupid.
Tell me it’s a waste.
It’s disappointing.
It’s pathetic.
It’s not worthy. Not for you. Just say it. Please.
