If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.

Πέμπτη, 27 Νοεμβρίου 2014

Looking Through The Window


I feel like poking that soft spot inside of me. It feels kinda sore lately.

And although poking and scratching it only makes it worse and it hurts, it kinda soothes the pain as well.

Which is ironic really. How does pain feed off pain to give some relief?


I looked at myself in the mirror in the morning and....fuck. My eyes, its like they're two huge black holes. I feel that anyone can see the chaos in my head just by staring at my face.

So yeah, tonight I felt like listening to music and reading poetry, the dark painful words of Mr Bukowski and the legendary Edgar Allan Poe, immerse myself into their worlds to hopefully make sense of mine.

I have a precious few who have been keeping an eye on me lately; but honestly? I think I've shut myself from the world because that's how I feel safe.

Maybe it is this place; I feel that I'm not living up to my potential, I feel that certain values of this society disagree with mine and I feel there isn't enough room to breathe. After I came back last year, I had told myself that if nothing world-shaking happens in the next 12 months, I'll leave. And I'm at a point in my life where I'm balancing between now or never. So, even though several things have happened, both pleasant and unpleasant, nothing world-shaking occurred. And I'm here. And I haven't booked a ticket and I'm left wondering what-the-fuck Tinks?

What the fuck?

It gets scary sometimes. And I feel very vulnerable right now.

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