Blood drops fall by the dozen. A crimson waterfall that holds the answer to all inner beauty. Some might describe this as a disgrace, but to us, the view is quite soothing. I don't know what's so soothing about blood splattered porcelain, but it was definitely a disappointment to watch the masterpiece wash down the drain. It wasn't /real/ blood. The real kind of bleeding comes from the heart, from an inner mixture of pain, hurt, and regret. The blood itself is only a meer representation of the emotions seeping out of you. You are releasing the feelings and doubts that once violated the space between your veins.
ah yes, release.
A word we quite often use but never exercise.
If only it were so simple to relieve ourselves of our inner torment. A frame of mind one may only escape through the scratching of a pen amongst it's paper.
It's disgusting.
But we can't help it. What alternative do we have?
It's an unavoidable paradox of sensitivity. When low, you want nothing more than to rise above. But when high, you crave the comfort of abandonment and self sufficiency.
The happiness is blinding and the sadness is suffocating.
I feel trapped inside of my own skin.
The only option left for us is to rest within a pool of exhaustion and brain dead behavior.
Maybe this is why we drain ourselves.
To reach our goal of a numbed spirit, carefully oozing more and more until we can no longer feel. If we do not feel, we cannot react, and if we cannot react, we are safe.
On the contrary, the void of neutrality still manages to leave you questioning what opportunities you might find on either side. When in such a depressive state, Satisfication is nearly impossible.
Sometimes I don't know if I want to change myself for society's likings or if I want society's likings to change for me.
Each and every day that passes is another day that I crave self destruction and poisonous influences. However, my intelligence is sobering enough for now.
The future is unsure.
