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lucifer000
The nonsense of my days escapes me, their unimportance of them when they should matter is an unfortunate outcome of meeting someone I adore the most. It has me praying more. I’m trying to care about myself even more than I did before. Taking this season by the neck, I won’t allow myself to become sick with memory each day I am obligated to walk the streets. I recall the pity I had received while casually going about my regular programming—won’t I be remembered for more than the laughs that would burst alongside my furious tears? Goosebumps, flashbacks to the tactile sensations of living as a ghost. People paid mind to me, though gave me the space I so clearly needed to heal from the scabs that perpetually fall off due to the weather.
Breathe. Breathe out. I go deeper into the stretch as my opened window blares the neighbor’s drumming session. How joyous it felt to be part of something, that we were all growing our world together. I don’t need to know everyone’s name or face, it is enough to exist peacefully. The universe takes my hand to tell me that we are everyone that surrounds us and everything that we will ever do. We are everything.
Is it procrastination? Am I justified in my attempts at wrangling the demons that endlessly chatter in my head? I can taste freedom the more honesty I allow to be tapped and flowed out to the world. I’m broken and battered, a con, lacking in enough convictions (but how the ones I have matter immensely to me!), won’t I find my way to the home I have never known?
I used to hate myself, but it is not that anymore. I pity myself, something I never hoped to do again. I am an absolute pity, a disgrace, a vessel cracking, notes slipping out to reveal that I am shameful. I cannot hide it, I am a living sensational haunting—the ghosts surround me, they are so very confusing! What are people to make of me when their reality is altered by entities surrounding my body?
Maybe I am schizophrenic. Perhaps my brain is rapidly deteriorating from one of the worst mental illnesses that make those with it blow their brains out. What am I supposed to do if it were so? Has it not been managed throughout history without psychological medications? Am I “coping”?
“You’re not, Des. You are suffering in a Hell of your own creation. Don’t you know what you’ve done? You listened to the advice of Lucifer himself, it will not be held against you—but it will come back to haunt you. These memories are tangible, and you endured; why don’t you give yourself a break more often? You’ve been high-strung without putting in the time and effort it takes to be your most productive, don’t you know everything you do is an investment by now? Yes, you were succumbing to your vices and had this delusional sense of justification toward your gratification that I do not respect in the least bit. I might enable it, but it is only because it is YOUR lesson to learn! You know what it does, you know you do not require it to be your best. You have so much life to give, you don’t need to smoke it out. Your body does not need to be oxygen-deprived! Try HARDER because you are able to! I have given you so much power. Look at you. Remember what you once were? Look at your muscle, the lack of bone poking through. Everyone can see you. Now, get to it. I love you.