Demons and Hellhounds (art book)

Vent-Writing

Pain.

A noun. A canyon torn open in your chest with seemingly no bottom in sight. It's filled to the brim with dark, raging waters, swirling dangerously behind a persons eyes. The steep climb up the side of that skyscraper-length wall proves to be difficult even for the most athletic of dreamers. You'll thrash in the storming waters swallowing you up, threatening to drag you lower; just to get some air. The air you will never be able to touch once you've become submerged in the trap, thus becoming one with the pain resonating inside your chest. You'll begin to drift away from your close friends, and they'll eventually move on without you. You'll begin to put up higher walls to keep intruders out, and surround yourself in hate and mockery. You'll begin to lie about your happiness so everyone else can smile and mean it, meanwhile you're still forcing yourself to feel something you're not. Your head becomes clouded with all these thoughts and ideas; "Hey, maybe it's not such a bad idea to do this myself. I can pull through!"
But you were wrong, and you knew it all along. You were t in control like you had thought and so you desperately struggle for some sense of relief to anchor yourself down. But it's always out of your reach, no matter how close or far from the light of sensibility you are. You can never go back to where you began.

The scribbles stopped, the owner of the pencil scrawling letters onto the lined paper staring insecurely down at the paragraph before them. Their eyes were fined with dark circles, heavy bags evident on he skin. They shook constantly and gripped their stomach; almost as if in constant pain no matter what they did.
Shaking their head, messy hair flying everywhere, they continued to write despite the gathering tears in their glassy eyes.

But, you can start halfway from where you fell down that canyon of hurt and distress. You only need to find someone with a willing mind. They'll pull you out of the fate you were destined for and help you start from where you left off. They'll brush off the ordeal and say you'd never owe them anything in return, but you know what would never be true, and so you strive to make them the happiest they'll ever be in this lifetime.
But—

He loosely gripped the fabric of his shirt, clenching his jaw and tightening his hand to a breakneck pressure.

—my saviour didn't come from above, he came from far below me.  He was in pain, he was hurting, he was lost; some might say. But what I saw wasn't a lost soul, it was a soul that was just wishing for someone who truly meant 'forever'. And so I'd give him that forever he'd wished for. I pushed down all my pain and pulled him up, led him to shore and told him he was safe. There was no more water, nothing would hurt him ever again. But, he saw it falter. He saw my smile falter just the tiniest bit, and then he was telling me the same thing over and over again. I'll never understand someone who was in so much more pain tell me, a person who was at the shallowest part of the canyon, that it was going to be okay.

Small splatters appeared on the notebook's pages, the source being the tear stained cheeks of the writer.

There's a difference between enduring it, and fearing it. I feared everything. He had gone through so much more and yet he still told me my problems matter.

A choked sob racked the skeletons form, but he continued to write nonetheless.

He told me that he was fine.

Another tear slipped down his cheek.

That he was happy.

Another whimper.

But he was lying all along.

He took a shuddering breath, redo posing himself.

There's a small glimmer in everybody's eyes, whether or note you can see them, you can feel them. It didn't look happy, he didn't sound happy; he wasn't happy. He was in pain.
He'd say; "It's nothing," and brush it off. But he seemed to be trying to convince himself more than me.

He could feel somebody's gaze boring into his skull, a shiver wracking his structure and pulling up insecurities. A deep feeling of paranoia and anxiety settled in the pit of his nonexistent stomach, paired with the feeling of more restless nights to come.

And so I told him; "It's okay, you're safe."

Releasing a shaky sigh from deep within his system, the author of the written note allowed his gaze to stray from the paper and instead travel over to a framed picture sitting neatly on one of the small shelves. Everyone was smiling, everyone was happy, everyone was a family. Blinking and flitting his stare back to the paper, he quickly scribbled the last few words down and signed off.

To; Nobody
   Sincerely, Zenzy

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Soooo. . .
A bit of vent writing for ya!
It took me a while to be perfectly happy with how the sentences were written and want words I used, but I think it's safe to say this is finished.

Now, this isn't meant to be perfectly accurate, it's just my representation of hardships on my end.
Don't get offended if this isn't your way of seeing pain-

Everybody is different.