No
one ever really forgets and the truth is more painful than life. I'm
pathetic. Paranoid. The world revolves around me complex. I don't
know what's me. I don't. I have no identity. Is that why I can't
forget her? I want to live through her reflection or something?
Everything I do is for what? I try to get lost in movies I can't even
appreciate nemore. I have friends who are what really but devices for
killing time. No one seems to tell me nething I haven't figured or
know already. There's nothing I want to tell neone because all I have
are empty listeners with more important things in their own life to
think about. So what now? Do you go into some sort of social
seclusion? Do u keep being "you"? all my likes and dislikes
don't matter. They aren't even mine. What power does choice really
give you. Dive into A or B or color them both red or stay where you
are. Everything is still nothing. I'm no one. The only reason I
"matter" is because people I should care about don't want
to feel sorry for me. Or at least I don't want them to. I'm afraid of
where this lack of giving a shit will take me. I read once that when
people realized how futile and pointless their lives really were is
when the God's of Olympus were created for the people. It makes
sense. If people felt like I do then what else besides "the
divine" could help? That only pushes me farther away from
believing. I'd like to write a book. Put all the drama and confusion
into some artfully deep poetic satire of my life. Then what. Some
remix of a story already told. Some cry for attention. What is an
author but a self indulgent intellect with too much time. I don't
know why I love her. I do though. I do and I want to force it away.
I'm tired of caring. Fuck me, fuck the situation, fuck it all. No
one, nothing matters. Its all intelligently designed bullshit. I'm
fucking done. If this fucking feeling won't go away I'll force it
out. I'm not waiting on "god" nemore. what plan. What
pupose. We invent it all. We created all. We are all. And ALL this
bullshit and drama, the very key to our exsistence, won't find itself
anywhere but shitting on my head. The only reason I feel guilt is
because of her. The only reason I care is because of her. The only
reason for nething is becoming because of her and I'm not a fucking
psycho obsessive. I refuse to go crazy or creepy or hopeless or deep
or confused or thoughtful about this shit nemore. it won't go away so
fuck it. I'll fight it. I'll kill it. one dead memory I can deal with
in hell. What doors can I open then. Fuck repeating history. Over and
over in an endless loop of fear. I want to know my potential. I want
to fucking get an answer to the most complicatedly simply question in
my life. The significance of choice is what. It's the only thing
people find pure. The definition of definition. What good is choice
when u see what ur really picking between?
