Nov 17, 2023
At this point I just face all my issues by creating a gay male character giving it a name and making it his problem, then writing abt it. Therapy who? Certainly not me.
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At this point I just face all my issues by creating a gay male character giving it a name and making it his problem, then writing abt it. Therapy who? Certainly not me.
It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.
Emil Cioran, The Trouble with Being Born, 1973
I killed the girl in the mirror because you told me to.
You said that her death would be my deliverance. Her sacrifice would cleanse me of my sins.
But, who am I without her? A momentary thought that I willingly ignore. I have been saved.
Her macabre screams fuel my nightmares. They plague my mind for days on end. With tears in her eyes she begged for mercy. I killed her without a moment of hesitation.
You never told me that the guilt would hurt more than the sins. Today I took an innocent life. And yet, by her I am saved.
Fine if you're not gonna "kill me" then I'll do it myself. Cunt.
How people look and people stare Well I don't think that I even care You rot your life away and what do they give? You're only killing yourself to live
Killing Yourself To Live! Killing Yourself To Live!
Just take a look around you, what do you see? Pain, suffering, and misery It's not the way the world was planned It's a pity you don't understand
Killing Yourself To Live! Killing Yourself To Live!
I'm telling you! Believe in me! Nobody else will tell you Open your eyes! And see the lies! Oh yeah!
Smoke it! Get high!
You think that I'm crazy and baby I know that it's true Before that you know it I think that you'll go crazy too
I don't know if I'm up or down Well the black and whites are blue and brown The colors in my life are all different somehow Little boy blue's a big girl nowSo you think it's me who's strange But you've never had to make the change Never give your trust away You'll end up in paying till your dying day
And this killing oneself, how does one set about it, with a table knife, uglily, with floods of blood, - by sucking a gaspipe? He was too weak; he could scarcely raise his hand. Besides, now that he was quite alone, condemned, deserted, as those who are about to die are alone, there was a luxury in it, an isolation full of sublimity; a freedom which the attached can never know.
Virginia Woolf, from Mrs Dalloway 1925