The archive of the forgotten

Rumination

trigger warning: implicated mental problems

I want to write down all these word but my head is haunted by this silence of hopelessness. It isn't silence, it is the screaming of nothingness, it scares me. I am slowly losing touch with my last remedy. Slowly losing it's joy, the black ink is turning red by the blood of my sadness, it is losing it's home in my thoughts. It is now a lone traveller without an destination, it has an empty heart because I can no longer fill it for them. I am afraid of the things on paper, I am frightened by the truth of poetry, the suffering of literature, the agony of symphony.

How can I forgive myself for being blind to my desire of quitting? How can I not blame myself for designing the mask? How can I not blame myself for torturing myself by writing it down again. Self destruction, it is a broad term. Does ripping your wound open for art count? It is for the sake of beauty, beauty is supposed to hurt right? Art is such a beautiful torture, and that is why I do not quit.

My hand touches the flame and happilly burns itself. I hate the quiet not the silence but the moment somewhere in between when the conversation stops just long enough to hear my thoughts scream. But I adore silence so I guess I can't complain. I am a paradox and an enigma, I have no idea how there are two versions of myself. This one which will force myself to rip open my chest and give away anything and the other version of me, sparkling, happy, a good friend, a jokester and somebody who has too much love to give.

I have this strange obsession with knowing every version of myself, the arrogant bastard my rival disdains, the soft unstable fragile boy my mother recognizes, the person my partner adores, the "strong" young man that my best friend "Admires" And than he end up begging me to stay with me. How Am I so selfish? I am such a fool, the way they worry as they sit by my bedside.

And than he whispers what mr. keating says in dead poets society: Carpe diem, seize the day. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, because, believe it or not each and everyone of us in this room, is one day going to stop breathing. Turn cold and die. And he squeezes my hand, it helps, it gives me silence in my mind for just a moment. "You'll be okay chayim." He whispers

But to end of the same as I started. I used to write to escape, to feel better, to feel whole. Put down the words and sing away your blues, collect the shards of your heart, but I have noticed that my writing has slowly become my bleeding. And now I ask, how have I been cut?