We're darn made to be strange. That's within us and with us throughout this life. And i don't seem to understand. Sometimes i wish i didn't have this much consciousness and sometimes i wish i didn't know consciousness. Because the more you're there for things that are implicit and decoded, the smaller and stupider you'll feel. This much knowledge is hurting me, these stretches in my mind are stirring my whole existence and even though i knew and i understood, I still don't know how should it all affect me. I don't know how it'll build me. I don't know if it hurts me or if it bless me or if i should just shoot me because i can barely think free. I can barely listen to me when i speak, when all these thoughts and realities are interfering with my old ones. And in each state, in each level i reach im never satisfied. Im not the least settled to anything and i wonder if the world wants us to be like this. If i should not be comfortable enough with myself everytime some new realization strikes me. I don't know what comforts me. Being understood maybe. Being heard and felt as present even if I'm actually living somewhere else i can't even name. A cave of worries, of uncertainties. An abyss. A void.
And i learned to not ask the whys. I learned that every answer to a why is an unsatisfactory. Because it's not coming from me. I'm not the one who alarms me, who sets my attention and brings me relief. I'm not the person whom answers my own questions. Cuz even if the question is universal and we all wish to have the exact same answer. It doesn't benefit anyone to know. It doesn't set meaning. It doesn't add to my awakening . It's a rhetorical question. And it's always driven by emotions not by logic. It's always sentimental when it should be asked for an information not for an explanation. No one can explain to me, not to the extent of how much i know what's wrong with me. I'm the only one who lives in this body that doesn't ever feel like mine And I'm too stupid to pretend that i don't know the answer. I'm just needy for reassurance. I'm needy for someone to tell me that i should keep going. To tell me what i already know about myself but wish people would see and notice. And if no one told me, if no one picks me roses for my mouth to eat then im doomed to perceive the complete opposite of me. I'd dig myself a grave and wait for any motive whatsoever to push me down and not just sleep restfully. I'd set fire to it and burn the whole ground to satisfy my anguish. I'd tell me each time i mistaken that this is printed for eternity. I'll teach me to hate me just like my parents didn't teach me how to love me. And I'll go around and brag about it. I'll sit in places and eat me to the core.
And then. Then I'll find me sitting in a park. Or in the middle of nowhere, folded in a bag of my own flaws, with roses between my fingers, tears of color in my eyes. Head shaved, hollowed smile and a toy pistol. There. the product of constant depression. A kid with no identity, no disguise, just a sack of burden, a soft core and all hypothesis of becoming vile that is taken as a joke. And there. I've created my own world of no single evidence of existence, of no relevance or need for dependence. There. I created a some person. And it ended.
