I don't understand how people can go on about their lives with such liveliness. The thought of death and never returning to my life ever again seems to pass through me at such diabolical times. I don't feel the need to try any longer. I keep going because I want things to become complete and the painting to finally be finished. I stare at the blank canvases and paintbrushes littering my room. I think I'm more of the "litter" I mentioned before than the art items. I seem to be a burden, but not enough to drown someone. I've been trying to become happier, to see things differently. There are people I love and things I enjoy doing, but that's not enough. My greedy being seems to want to feed off of all this and cut me out of my own existence. The malevolence seeping into the pores of my worries is stretching my sanity into an extravagant being. I want to cut myself apart and watch the blood flow out like cascades, I feel as if it wouldn't hurt at all and I have become blue and crystallized. I have seen the color of the ocean's deep trenches of my mind.
YOU ARE READING
Mortality
Non-FictionI honestly don't know. It perhaps is just another depressed teen's writing you are coming across. Perhaps, I need some help, but I don't want to try.
