Self Loathing- Passive

December 10, 2011
By Tristis BRONZE, 28 Highland Avenue, New York
Tristis BRONZE, 28 Highland Avenue, New York
2 articles 0 photos 6 comments

Favorite Quote:
"You have a demon inside- a demon who, when you are provoked by anger, drives your imagination into a realm where that anger-inducing thing is slaughtered. To deny that is to deny an emotion."
Everything is capable of changing, but not will to.


Unum

_____________


I’m tucked inside a dark corner, apart of a place I’ve never known. Another piece of this demon-haven, where the dead are alive and the living are weak and losing. I’m the only living thing here though.
This is my mind, after all.
I’m sure that most of you are going to read this scrap of paper and throw it away. I’m not… necessarily sure why. Perhaps problems are too overrated nowadays. Maybe that’s why the people here are so mistreated, and so caught in demise. Because no one gets any help.
I’ve witnessed it first hand, through my dying eyes.
“I’m getting up now….” I repeat to myself, and lift my heart off the couch.
So many things in my head. SAD, OCD… the official ones. Numbers derived from food play tug-of-war with my frontal lobe, self loathing rips my ribcage to get to the beating flesh inside. How sickening it must be, to be so dumb. So frightened, so beaten, so red-eyed and red-armed.
Yup. I’m just one of those people. Those stupid little scared people.
I walk up the stairs, toward my room. The stairs creak, like old and moan-friendly souls, as I place my weight on them. Breaking my stride into an eager- or impatient- trot, I finish up the few top steps and turn to the hallways.
“I’m going to take a nap….”
Naps… oh, haha. Naps. They’re so good. Naps. They take the reality away from me and bring the black soul to a place where there are no rules to mutilate and thus feel guilt over, where hearts cannot be broken, where reality respects your silence and leaves you. Sometimes, I think, when people take naps, it’s another version of death. Only you’re brought back to life.
It’s a burden, really.
I lay myself down on the cool bed. The sheets mold to my familiar form. The pillow plays my hair over itself, like it’s own comforter. I stare up, at the big white sheet that is the ceiling, and wonder,

How many ways can you get to Heaven?

Might as well, if I keep living like this.


The author's comments:
This is supposed to be a part one of some series. If I ever do get the urge to make a series.
And in the picture... JEEZ. That guy can BEND!

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