Written circa october-november 2015
It is all an unhealthy affair. An addiction treated badly, irresistible to the quivering mind as it wobbled through the dark. It helped before, when it all was raining down on everything, when it was washing away everything that ever could have been a safety in life. It was painted up as a bright and hopeful thing, a white sheep in a herd of black, so easily deceiving the shivering, sobbing soul that it wasn't like the others. That not all addictions have to be bad and that it shouldn't even be called that. But it's hurtful. A way for the mind to spell out for itself, everything that it's lacking, and when it comes to itself, the mind will never stop looking for flaws. It will never stop picking at itself, as if it's programmed to self destruct. Slowly but surely, even the body became queasy at the thought of writing more but the mind pushed through until it was impossible to even lift the pen even more. It wouldn't stop there but it couldn't do more, so it waited. Waited for a time of greater strength, when it could kill the mind once again. It would only take a short while to deceive it into thinking that it wasn't it's fault at all, and that it was a friend all along, to then later stab it in the back again. Oh how it must live for the thrill of torture. It's got the troops of the misunderstanding on it's side, waving it off and as long as that happens, it will never leave.
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Fading
Historia CortaA collection of short stories, scenes from human lifes, so different, yet so strikingly similar. Guilt. Stress. Anxiety. Sins. They're all there, we cannot live without making or feeling them, but to what cost? And to what point is it worth it anymo...
