So many bad things I’ve done. Burning bridges, taking for granted the love, the trust. I cheated, I lied, I hide, I told incredible stories that probably didn’t happened–I don’t know I was nuts.
The guilt haunts me in every breath that I took, and it doesn’t make me good. I m guilty as charged and I have admitted it. I have been punished by losing the things I love, people I care about, a home, sanity, and money.
And yet still I get happiness. And this happiness is my ultimate crime because I made people love me. I don’t deserve this love, this life. After all that I’ve done. But I’ve got the words to describe it now. Now that I am blessed with unbearable lightness of being, I’ve got to earn what has been given. That privilege should be a debt that can only be paid forward.
With every evaluated sin, wisdom should come forth. And wisdom is nothing but action to earn what has been given.
Blessed thy soul, you who have passed by and who will come forth. I cannot save you but I will endure you if I can.
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This is a work fiction. All resemblance with the reality is on purpose. Explicit content.
It is obvious that my loneliness is the main cause of all these fuss, unfaithfulness, the distorted feeling of entitlement. It is my most deceptive defensive mechanism–that the truth, in itself, is self destructing. I am alienating people in order to alienate myself from the hell that they construct.
Creating my own hell, is better than living somebody else’s heaven.
Thus, I hurt myself again, just to find a way to make me forget that I am lonely. I hurt myself with bulimia, with days of sleep, with obsessive scratching, cutting, and obsessive exercise when the manic came, sleepless nights, and after that I still want to punch any guy, or fuck any girl that I think deserve my fist or my dick. I am all open to fight or fuck because I’m sick of flight.
And I’d desperately love anybody who wants to love me. And I’d burn myself, sacrifice myself, ready to be crucify like Jesus H. Christ, and I’d beg people not to leave me until they’d got annoyed and see me as a freak and they need to leave me to stay sane because I’d drive them crazy, so I’d drive my car. I’d drive and drink myself hope to die on the road, hopefully with other assholes that swarming the highways of this city.
And all of it would be my fault. Nobody can blame or even care about my disorder, my upbringing, the system that I am in. I and only I, will be held responsible for all this mess that’s happening with my life and other people that I dragged.
The fucking shrink might say that this thought is cognitive distortion, self entitlement, but fuck you, the court, the people’s court cannot hold my disorder, my upbringing responsible for my actions. They cannot put those abstract nouns in jail, they could not rehabilitate my illness. It is I and only I, will be held responsible for my actions.
And what else should I do but to embrace what the universe has given me? I have eliminate the choice to take my own life because of the meds or because I’m a fucking coward. Anyway, I have no choice but struggle against a sea of trouble and by opposing hope to end them. Even though I know, that I will lose and drown and will face inevitable slow death. But at least I did fight back and refuse to flight.
At least I did good, at being brave. To open my eyes every day, and trying hard to get out of bed and go out to the world. To fight or to fuck. And if I have to lose love again, I think it’s just because I don’t deserve love. I am condemn to beg. For mercy, for love, for attention, only to toss it all out, when I feel lonely.
Because of this distorted feelings and thought, that I’d rather be alone, than be lonely. And the only way to be out of the misery of loneliness, is to break all ties and be perfectly alone to face the misery of the ubermench, the homo deus. Until there is no happines or misery any more, until there is no value in the narrative of my life.
It is when I became forgetful, mad, or die.
Sickness unto death.
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All these stories, are just a bunch of words and interpretations.
You name the stars, the scars, the bars you put up high to hide to reach to confine to define to find….
You and me in different cell but the same prison.
Freudian dreams, Jungian Myths, Lacanian Imagination and Kafkaesque absurdity…
Don’t you think reality is just another story?
With you I am rock and roll; that sleepless drunk poet looking for the devil, pretending to pay a debt with something he no longer have: his soul.
Without you, my mood is jazz and blues, ups and downs with sax and brass an ex with grass then sex and breast.
I never have anywhere to go, so I follow every ho who says land ho! I guess they always want to settle in an island but the wave give ride to the night and right, I have no right to stay for the devil hath take my soul and the full moon tide is my mood.