Sometimes, this is me. (go back »)

Someone once said, "You only live once. But if you live right, then once is enough"

Right now I don't quite feel like living at all.

I do. I do feel like living. Just not this life. Maybe that's why I drink. To be able to live someone else's life. To be better able hide myself. I don't want anyone to see me for who I really am.

I want everyone to see me, understand me, like me. Maybe I'm too desperate.

I am without, for I have no idea what resides within.

Maybe it's about time I had an existencial breakdown. This is me, falling apart. Hallelujah! Lol.

I don't know what do to with myself, what to feel, who to talk to. Someone should give me an oscar for the roles I play and the people I fool.

Skating. Existing.

I feel hollow. I know what I should feel when I should feel it but I just don't feel it. I just want to escape. Get away. Even if that means hurting people that love me. I just want to get away. Maybe it'll help if I were a cutter, or had an eating disorder, maybe I'd have a definite problem with a solid solution and I could be cured of my...

Maybe I just really need to talk to someone that can talk back to me.

Maybe I need to get the fuck over myself.

Maybe I could run away. Be a prostitute for old fat guys and end up at some random bar in some random place living off of blowjobs and fast food. That would feel good. No one would know me. I wouldn't let them. But maybe I would let some more people in. If only to leave them behind. Being surrounded by good times, silence, laughter and suicide.

Maybe I am a masochist. I like to feel pain.

I want a man to gaze at me with unadultered lust. But I want a woman to fuck me. I want to be dirty, live in clean places and gorge my rotten soul on sin. But I don't even believe in sin. I believe in doing things that hurt you. That make you hate yourself immensely for doing them. I want to be used. I want to use someone.

I want to have an intellectual conversation about anything and everything over intellectual meals while sipping intellectual drinks. I want so much that I may never have.

Pouring out my soul to a computer in way that I could never voluntarily pour my soul out to anyone else. It feels good. Like nothing at all. Like a building of blood that disappears when studied.

I love existencial things, broad and vague things.

Things that go on and on and on even when they've stopped.

Like being numb. Like falling apart. Like feelings. Like letting go. Like living.

In Melancholy