Standing on the wrong floor.
Monday, May 7, 20079:25 PM
I’m stupor and a nonsense.
Aki, I’m sorry I wasn't able to save your number because I wasn't thinking again. Now all I have to do is wait for your text so I can text you back. And no, our chat transcript was not on my ym’s archive.
I should say I was
happy very happy indeed to chat with you -- a fellow depressed human being that is fully capable of understanding me. Yes, I get very random a lot of times. But above all, I am just a sad piece of rubbish.
God, I missed writing. I’ve been writing since I was 12, I was not close to good or mediocre but I write to my heart's content or until my hands give up. I could write good things, even exceptional things that climbed its way to make me an editor-in-chief of our school’s paper. It made me a one happy soul that hoped it could write until the heart completely spoke itself.
The months, weeks, days, minutes and seconds -- moved so fast that I was utterly left behind and it made me robot, a stupid metal junk. I was, in the past, cheerful I should say but I was less friendly. Or I wasn't really friendly at all.
College didn’t do anything good either. I honestly don’t like the course I’m taking. It was all for the sake of my parents. It hurts me so much how it slaps me in the face – the fact that ever since, all the things I do was for the sake of some people. I couldn’t think of a sole thing I made for the intention of satisfying my heart’s call. Then I am furthered rejected by the people around me for who I really am.
ME – Twisted. Apathetic. Depressed. Introverted. Freak. Psychopath. Alien. Madman. A Killer.
And now, I lack myself a heart. It got fed-up from too much hurting it chose not to hurt nor feel anymore. God knows why am I like this or how did I end up despising myself. I am not even an excuse for an unrhymed twisted lullaby.
Only me knows what I truly want right now –
a friend.
A friend that’ll let me be myself and not be some clique’s dress-up Barbie doll that does this-and-that because her adorned friends told her so. I wish I could die right now, get poisoned or get drunk. But the thing is I don’t even drink alcohol. Maybe I could just kiss some cyanide lips and send myself to sleep.
Tear me up and Break me down children of my disheartened sort. Take your black markers and cross me out 'coz you can't turn back swings that i've made and my permanent markers can't be erased. That's why I call it permanent.
"I love the way I kill people in my brains.
It always ends up sweet at their funeral and I get to wear Black."
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