27 July 2014. It’s raining outside.
27. July 2014
I am a victim of my own mind. The words spill out on to the page and they hurt me. They speak so true. My creativity is my curse and it is my pain, my sadness, and my demise.
No one will know. No one will know of the deep sadness that haunts me before I sleep, when my mind is restless and stirring. I’ve thought about it, you know, the end. My end will only come for me, it will leave no path, a trail or a cause. Nothing. I will evaporate and all happiness will remain. No sadness will be endured, because I was never loved.
I think about love and a face appears. It’s him. My illusion, the reason why I have to continue… but it is a lie.
The face I see is not one of love, or devotion. It is lust. I cannot begin to comprehend why I feel so strongly. Why my presence in someone’s life must come with such weight. Then I realise that I don’t want to be alone. I want something I can’t have: A counterpoint that will balance out the deep sadness and the rarity that is my euphoria.
I let the words write themselves. They don’t make sense to me either.