Just kidding...Made you look...A little White Lie
Remember how I started that previous line of mine, in last blog post: "OK, just when I thought my depression was in an all time low, it shot back up again"?
Yeah well. So much for that. SO MUCH FOR THAT.
The minute I wake up, the minute I walk, the minute I arrive in front of that building. That infernal building with that infernal appearance and that infernal archway that reads that infernal name. I feel can no longer hear the wail and rather the wane of Michael Buble or Muse's "Feeling Good." No more. I'm at school again and my Depression is back.
I feel like crying for no reason. I talk when I don't want to. And I don't talk when I want to. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to talk to him. I don't want to talk to her. My parents. My friends. His face. Her face. I hate them all, all at once and I want to stumble down some hole somewhere, I want to stumble out of confusion and into some light. It could be twisted, crooked, but I wouldn't care.
"It's a new dawn. It's a new day. It's a new life. For me."
Right Muse? Right Michael? Just let me hear the drums, the guitar, that piano and the full brass band.
About the talking thing...I just don't feel like talking selectively. It could be a certain person, a certain time, but all at once I just don't feel like it. I could write. But I couldn't talk. I don't want to and sometimes the reason is obvious, to me, but not always.
Mom keeps reminding me that I should preform well in school, Dad also. They want me to have a future. "You've come too farm to waste what you started," Mom says. Yeah, she's right. But a part of me doesn't care. I don't care where I end up tomorrow, if I'm dead or dying. If I'm still breathing, alive. I could graduate, go to college, stay in school and study up. I could get a job. I could live out my life. Or I would take another few hundred paths and just live out life or end it altogether. So many times, I don't care and it's not a wangsty-angsty-attention-seeker talking.
It's definite decision. It's A definite decision.
I don't really think of myself as needing to be put on suicide-watch or happy-pills. I really don't, though after reading this you may think otherwise. I'll leave it up to your own opinion, so long as you don't judge me. Don't judge me and I'll try not to judge you. I guess you can't help it. People are that way; critical, judgmental and seemingly all knowing--wrapped up in their own logic. Dogmatic, slightly. That girl who has the same name as an former country is the definition of dogmatic.
The reason why I don't think of myself as needing happy-drugs or a suicide-watch, is because I can't kill myself. As strange as it sounds, I'm afraid to kill myself as much as I want to die sometimes. I don't want to die to "end it all" or to punish myself or to punish any of you. I want to die, because I really think I'm just sitting in my blood, my flab and bones, wasting. I'm just a waste. Someone else could make better do with my life than I could. Someone suffering or someone whose supposed to die early. I could and I would give up my life and donate it to someone else.
Yeah, that whole "Seven Pounds" stuff. For those of you who haven't seen the movie should. Don't see it in theaters. Wait. It's very long. It's predictable for those of you who have very keen senses and can put puzzles together very quickly. But it's worth watching. It's a humbling movie, I think.
Thank you, Merry Go Round boy. I wouldn't have ever saw it if you hadn't forced me into a situation where I had to see it. I appreciate it. Really. Honestly. Sincerely.
Mr. Ben Thomas of "Seven Pounds", I'd do what you did, if I wasn't a damn coward. And if I was older and had 'connections' like you did. I'm scared to feel pain though I'm strangely tolerant of it.
I couldn't though. I get really freaked out talking about blood and diseases. I won't faint. I won't throw up. But I just feel like torture. Just like I feel torture when people I dislike talk to me too much. It's agony. I just writhe in my skin and my eardrums throb, like someone pierced them.
That's what is keeping me alive. I'm afraid of death. If you could put me down though, like a dog. I'd go. Just put me down and put me to some good use. Donate my organs to some girl, some boy, some man, some woman who deserves them. Who needs a second chance.
Yeah well. So much for that. SO MUCH FOR THAT.
The minute I wake up, the minute I walk, the minute I arrive in front of that building. That infernal building with that infernal appearance and that infernal archway that reads that infernal name. I feel can no longer hear the wail and rather the wane of Michael Buble or Muse's "Feeling Good." No more. I'm at school again and my Depression is back.
I feel like crying for no reason. I talk when I don't want to. And I don't talk when I want to. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to talk to him. I don't want to talk to her. My parents. My friends. His face. Her face. I hate them all, all at once and I want to stumble down some hole somewhere, I want to stumble out of confusion and into some light. It could be twisted, crooked, but I wouldn't care.
"It's a new dawn. It's a new day. It's a new life. For me."
Right Muse? Right Michael? Just let me hear the drums, the guitar, that piano and the full brass band.
About the talking thing...I just don't feel like talking selectively. It could be a certain person, a certain time, but all at once I just don't feel like it. I could write. But I couldn't talk. I don't want to and sometimes the reason is obvious, to me, but not always.
Mom keeps reminding me that I should preform well in school, Dad also. They want me to have a future. "You've come too farm to waste what you started," Mom says. Yeah, she's right. But a part of me doesn't care. I don't care where I end up tomorrow, if I'm dead or dying. If I'm still breathing, alive. I could graduate, go to college, stay in school and study up. I could get a job. I could live out my life. Or I would take another few hundred paths and just live out life or end it altogether. So many times, I don't care and it's not a wangsty-angsty-attention-seeker talking.
It's definite decision. It's A definite decision.
I don't really think of myself as needing to be put on suicide-watch or happy-pills. I really don't, though after reading this you may think otherwise. I'll leave it up to your own opinion, so long as you don't judge me. Don't judge me and I'll try not to judge you. I guess you can't help it. People are that way; critical, judgmental and seemingly all knowing--wrapped up in their own logic. Dogmatic, slightly. That girl who has the same name as an former country is the definition of dogmatic.
The reason why I don't think of myself as needing happy-drugs or a suicide-watch, is because I can't kill myself. As strange as it sounds, I'm afraid to kill myself as much as I want to die sometimes. I don't want to die to "end it all" or to punish myself or to punish any of you. I want to die, because I really think I'm just sitting in my blood, my flab and bones, wasting. I'm just a waste. Someone else could make better do with my life than I could. Someone suffering or someone whose supposed to die early. I could and I would give up my life and donate it to someone else.
Yeah, that whole "Seven Pounds" stuff. For those of you who haven't seen the movie should. Don't see it in theaters. Wait. It's very long. It's predictable for those of you who have very keen senses and can put puzzles together very quickly. But it's worth watching. It's a humbling movie, I think.
Thank you, Merry Go Round boy. I wouldn't have ever saw it if you hadn't forced me into a situation where I had to see it. I appreciate it. Really. Honestly. Sincerely.
Mr. Ben Thomas of "Seven Pounds", I'd do what you did, if I wasn't a damn coward. And if I was older and had 'connections' like you did. I'm scared to feel pain though I'm strangely tolerant of it.
I couldn't though. I get really freaked out talking about blood and diseases. I won't faint. I won't throw up. But I just feel like torture. Just like I feel torture when people I dislike talk to me too much. It's agony. I just writhe in my skin and my eardrums throb, like someone pierced them.
That's what is keeping me alive. I'm afraid of death. If you could put me down though, like a dog. I'd go. Just put me down and put me to some good use. Donate my organs to some girl, some boy, some man, some woman who deserves them. Who needs a second chance.
posted by Chinny at
10:53 AM
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