Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Prepare yourself .

This post isn't going to be like the others. In fact it's not even related to Barcelona at all... It shouldn't come as a surprise that I love writing, and every so often I get really inspired to write. I'd like to start writing short stories and eventually a novel, but I already write poems often (in my book I call them lyrics, but same deal) and of course I'm always writing on this blog. I think in time I'm going to start another blog (I know, you're thinking, whattttt, a THIRD one? It may or may not be an addiction..) that I will post literary works on; things that I'm proud of that I've written, or whatever. Honestly if I do start another blog there probably won't be new posts very often, but that's okay. Anyways, I got inspired with this one, and before you click the 'read more' button I'd like you to clear your head and really try to forget about everything, because I don't think you'll get the full effect if you don't. I'd love some feedback on this one... so hit me up. Enjoy this; hopefully there will be more to come in the future. Also, keep in mind this is still a work in progress.

If you close your eyes what do you see?

You walk around, and the noise soon disappears. Vision circles until everything around you is pitch black and you enter into a tunnel that you very well not ever make it out of. Your eyes glaze over with ice; losing their pigment until you look like some sort of deranged zombie, and yet the fire burns. It burns with ferocity never felt before; it burns until all that's left is the empty socket where it formed. And oh, it burns. The pain that you've felt now is more intense than you've ever felt before.

But each time you feel it, it feels like it's there less than the last time. The feeling numbs you and you feel like you can step outside your body and view it from the outside, hanging from the rope you just tied around your own neck. Is this the darkest place you've been?

It doesn't matter what the weather is outside. Every day is miserable for you. You walk around and feel sick to your stomach, ready to spew your insides like you have no life left to live. Ready to carve out your own eyes to get rid of the repulsive monotony of yesterday, today, and every day here on forward. Fuck sunshine. Fuck the sky and the clouds and fuck all these people walking around. You don't care.

Their lives are like a fly that you can swat at but never kill. They are the itch that you can't scratch. They are the scars on your hands that you can't help but see every waking moment of your life. They annoy you.  They antagonize and mock you. They make you angry. You can feel the hate. And the hate has never been as strong as it is now. When you close your eyes you begin to tremble and you just want to scream out loud. You want to yell at all that is around you because it doesn't ever. Fucking. Change. It doesn't even seem real anymore. Someone could punch you in the face and you wouldn't even feel it.

Time slows down.

People turn into statues in the blink of an eye. And where are you in it all.

With your eyes closed, that's where. They might be stuck there forever. And you, burning with this loathing inside for all that is around you.

This desire for a normal life no longer exists. It never will again. Was it even really there in the first place? What is normal anyway.

The people around you; they don't fucking get it. They don't see what goes on when you close your eyes. You want to spit in their faces. They think you're disturbed; they think you are possessed. If you were you wouldn't care. This body wasn't meant to be your own anyway. You don't need help. You've got all the fucking help you need; and it's nothing at all. None.


It's noon on a Thursday in March. But what does it mean to you. The days have no meaning. You can't even remember your own name. You think you understand it all but you don't. You're no longer the person you were. You act on instinct. And you operate on one feeling alone. That feeling is rage.

How dare someone cross your path. How dare someone tell you how to live your life. How dare they. Do they know who you are?

Of course not. They too stupid to know. They're ignorant; naive. They're ill-informed pieces of shit. The scum on your toilet that you haven't scrubbed in six years of living in this shit hole. The dirt on your clothes and the dried blood that has perpetually formed over the callouses grown rough over the years on your knuckles.

The one possession you have that you care about is the bat on the wall. How many heads has that bat seen. How many people has it connected with. It didn't matter when, why, or where.

You can take all of the shit in one day and channel it all. You close your eyes and that fire burns strong. It burns vehemently, and it burns with the utmost intent of pain. You've been there before, and now it's time for you to deal the cards. You've taken it every. Single. Day. of your life. And now it's time to break these rules that society set. What are rules anyway; but a hindrance to all that should be.

The mouths of what some could call 'people' move but you don't hear anything. You hear empty space. You hear the white noise. You hear everything and nothing all at the same time. Maybe everything is nothing in reality. What is reality? You bring out the best and the worst. You make them think; as you had to think. You make them realize what absolute shit it all is and you make them scream as you did.

They will be left with the same scars that haunted you daily. But now the ghosts of the past are gone. They don't exist. You're numb to it all. Death, pain, anger, it's all a part of you. You are the instigator and you are the closer. You are never the one to start it. But you're sure as shit the one who's going to finish it.

People might be scared. Fear has left your body. It's not even a question of emotion anymore. You don't look at people, you look through people. The moisture that once inhabited you is dry. The well of emotion has long since been extinct. And every time you swallow you slide your throat on sandpaper until it's raw.

It's not controllable anymore. You've let it build for years. You can remember every time you were crossed. Every time that pain struck. But it has been long enough. It's not the end of the world, but it's time for retribution. It's time recrimination. Because enough is enough.

At the end of the day, what are you viewed as? Are you the sinner in a city of saints? Are you the one that went bad, the experiment that went wrong? Or have you just resided in the shadows since the beginning?

Your heartbeat doesn't ever change. Nerves don't exist anymore. But the constant throbbing in your head does. You look around and light is too bright to see in. Your eyes are burning, burning with contempt and malice. They glaze over once more and ignite.

You may not realize it but you've already lost. You've already succumbed to it all. You haven't signed yourself away to anyone or anything. You've become who you were meant to be, the sick fuck who you were all along. It was all just a game before then, a depraved preface to what was to come.

You've punched that wall of cinder blocks until your knuckles bled themselves try. You've cut your arms and left scars a convict would cringe at. You've lost so many fingers that you can't remember the last time you could even shake a hand. And yet it all works --

It all fits.

You can't even swallow because you're throat won't allow it. You breathe, but you breathe smoke now. Your lungs are black with disgust and revulsion. And this attempt at some sort of panacea was all for naught. In all your wildest dreams -- what dreams. You've never had dreams. Notions appear and disappear like apparitions in the night sky. They exude disease of all kinds and you're so sick in the head that you've become immune to it all.

The battle hasn't started but they've already lost. They don't even know what's coming, and you'll hit them before they've realized it's started.

Your arms twitch knowingly, as they always do. And at the point where your clenched fists connect with the flesh of another and the blood erupts out of their orifices is where you feel most present.

Your clothes are constantly stained with a mixture of your blood and others'. They're saturated. And you couldn't give less of a fuck. Because no one ever seems to get it. And they never will. They're not like you, and no one else in the whole world is. You've lost yourself entirely. You've got nothing to lose, nothing to hold you back, nothing to tell you right from wrong and nothing to tell you that you've gone too far. There is no limit anymore and there is no one who can tell you what to do.

Is it liberation from your restrictions or is it pure freedom? A turbulent swirl of chaos and erratic bloodshed. The crusade continues. And yet you don't know why you're fighting but that's not the point.

All the while you shake and you tremble violently. You're stuck in this place that no one, not even the devil himself would dare to venture. You've got ice in your veins and fire in your heart. You fuel yourself on malcontent and confrontation. These pitiful lives no longer have meaning.

At what point is it all going stop. At what point does it stop.
Because right now you've got nothing to lose. Nothing
to keep you from doing what it is you've wanted
all along. To smash the face of corruption
and everything else that comes along
with it. These zombies that walk
around like it's all okay.
And in their eyes they
view it to be violent.
You know the truth.
Only you.

If you're seeking redemption for all that has happened, you need only look one place.

the mirror.
˙ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ

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