Notes

Late night breakdown

Tangled fingers
Blood drops in spastic motions
Tears spiraling like crystalloids down an invisible pathway.
And I'm curling my hand around airy space that in alternate and perfect universe would be filled in by your palm.
They're all so sick. Twisted minds warped around the idea that dreams are empty air, their memories decayed to nothing more than the present; a constant urge to do nothing but fulfill empty desires, a selfish drive pulling them through life. But what about hope? What about the seconds of slow breathing in the moments when you're falling asleep, the way it feels like a warm wave washing over you in total tranquility. What about philosophy, or hidden rivers in secret places? Why can't we talk about the stars? There's a magic in fairy tales, how they transform our fears and wishes into a blot of ink forming words. I don't want to ever stop believing that every tale is somehow true. That a fairy godmother walks among us on the streets, and comes home every day to children rushing towards her smile. I see the prince-turned-Beast in every faded out man lying half-conscious with his eyes glazed over. What about true love? I want to pull myself back to the time when I used to believe in it, spending my days searching for the seeds of it in dusty nooks and crannies.
Why do they insist on emptying their minds of all things magical, just live in the now and think only of what feels good. How can they be so callus?
Are they not equally broken and hollow as everyone else?
Just like the rest of us; like me?
I refuse to think myself the odd one out. The perception of being special is a fantasy conjured in the minds of those that crave the presence of someone unconditionally and completely devoted to them. By those that rationalize the lack of such a person with ideas about being different and tragically misunderstood.
In reality, no such devotion exists, not even for the best of us.
The motion of a blade against skin is nothing more than the conditioned response to an unexpected stimuli that almost everyone faces, but only some cope with in such a fashion.
In the end, none of these things matter, since after all, aren't I just a naive adolescent just waiting my way through life until I reach the day when I can be comfortably numb and none of this matters anymore? That seems to be what adults transform into, and it's only so long until I'm one of them too. Mindless, brainwashed, with no care to color outside the lines. No such thing as faith, since there wont seem to be anything to believe in anymore.
So I'll just hush and listen while others tell me that my words mean nothing.