Ok cool, I was starting to think writing about being sad was trapping myself in a culture of sadness.
That lock is just symbolic,
my silence unsustainable.
I should make it dark now,
and my attention unobtainable.
For I have wronged another,
and I don’t want to deal with that.
So I hide and pray and hope that they
may find within them mercy.
Sorry that I never stop apologizing,
if not verbally, visually.
It’s in my demeanor, my overeager
tendencies to rush anything
because of all the vacancy
I’ve shown only indirectly.
"All this Politically-Correct Thought Policing is seriously getting out of hand. Are people not even allowed to have wrong opinions anymore?”
- Someone on the internet who kind of gets it.
I now see the weak spot of my eye,
the hole beyond my pupil.
Avatars are waiting to exploit me,
to defeat me in three swift blows
as they dodge and learn my pattern.
Dragging reticles for arrows.
Has it always been so obvious,
a visual sign of vision lost?
Or is it an opening of a window to my soul?
A window installed,
where there used to be wall.
I’ve learned the rhythm of the ticks
of the time bomb in which I sit
on a more than daily basis.
When I’m angry, I let the fuse burn
and wonder how many cycles
are left until the explosion.
Sometimes I pray not many remain.
Who am I kidding, faith
isn’t something I’m sure
I’m capable of.
Do I need to be?
No, but do I want to be?
Is there something to those
with it that I envy?
I know how to disarm the fuse,
but the solution is a patch.
paralyzing me and preventing progress.
At least I know what forms
progress may take in the future.
That’s a step.
That’s progress, for me.
Our universe can only support so much consciousness at once.
So while we sleep, we get transported to another, that has the room for it.
It’s like an energy exchange.
Dreams are tangible, just not in the world we inhabit.
I wish desperately to switch places with another version of me.
We’re all part of the same cosmic being, so what’s wrong with the parts being interchangeable? I’m already basically a cyborg, a form of machine.
Man’s filled to the brim with savagery, and the universe is filled to the brim with men.
Let’s flood them all and see what emerges when it’s all dried up.
Crumbs of my own form of chrysalis fall around me.
The burn from the hottest source causes the least damage.
I’m shedding the parts of myself that died on the inside.
Now they’re making their way out.
Skin, hair, nails;
all fall in conjunction with one another.
Youth, naiveté, without fail
soon follow their physical brothers.
So don’t worry about the fading beauty,
and don’t worry if there was any there to begin with.
For behold, before your eyes: A person.
Now a man, now a woman, stronger for all the pain they’ve felt.
All the pieces inside that have died
simply made room for who you see before you.
while you passionately ramble about anything it is you want to share.
might be a good name for a blog of a depressed person. If my blog’s name changes to this, just know that I’m feeling sad tumblers.