With and Without

{For I have not been more aesthetically inclined as I have once been before, to create from the mind that I can greatly harvest and expand in both lines of words, and beauty of the mind}

{I’d like to rot in my own hell-hole of despair, but to do that is to be selfish, for the people who I have intimate ties with will only mirror my sadness into their souls, therefore I cannot simply die off in a blissful oblivion that I’ve tried countless times to achieve. What else is there to do then? To just create a more lively picture of my abnormal taste in morbidity to quench the thirst of my shaky equilibrium? To use my willingness to destruct my life with spontaneous decisions that’ll only make me feel more alive?}

{I’ve realized my way of breathing, where I need a constant connection of both physical and introvert needs, a unity of mind, heart, and soul with another. I’ve lived two separate lives since I was young, both public and in secrecy. A secret life plays out away from the eyes of others, where no one will know, or ever find the truth. I lived two lives to withstand the chaos in both, to change and alter- skipping back and forth between them each. I almost felt as if I were different people, of same mind, but different happiness. My public life consists of herbs and medications to keep my mind from wondering into a suicide hole. My secrecy consists of joyous euphoria, content, and love. I become more intact with my human emotions, I become more self-aware, because the choices I make there will only change my appearance and mind in the public eyes. Everything becomes a blur to me, I never listen closely enough, I never hear all the words, I’m just merely walking around in a shell that I’ve contracted so far within, no one’s seen my real happiness before, and in my real happiness- it seems that I can only awaken that when I’m with my beloved. I was cursed upon this burden ever since I gave my first bits of love to a wolf that only tore my heart out, drugged me with “fairy-tale” love, and feasted upon my very life. So life away from my key holder is needless to say a life that I wish not be in. I’ll be okay, I tell myself, but all those words are just postponing the small disaster I let myself fall in. I wound myself internally with the thoughts that never cease to end… And I make myself my own poison, a poison flowing in my mind that leaks from half-conscious thoughts that never seem to go away, I can only suppress it more with smoke brought by many drugs, and my cold hands running along…}


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