In the Dark

Everything will fall into place one day; at least that is what I keep telling myself.  The constant struggles, arguing, control, and depression will eventually go away...someday, or so I hope.1

I am the opposite of every character trait I possess.  When there is an overtone of empathy, there must be apathy present to balance it out.  But is it really balance?  Or just sick and twisted paths leading me to my death?  All along, I've been dying just to live, but I've realized rather painfully, yet comforted by the actuality that in my life; I am literally living to die.  I am not only a human being; a suffering human being; but I am also a living torture chamber.  This torture chamber is most commonly known to me as my brain.  For it has the control over my every move; my every strained breath.  My emotions, my pain; my life of suffering--my torture chamber has me chained and confined to the haunting horror that dwells within.  The walls--so smooth and calming.  Yet with one slight, shed tear (a weakness), those calming walls cave in.  They close tighter and tighter, while the chains grope at my arms and wrists; tear at my flesh...close around my neck, and suffocate me in the weakness that is drawn forth...2

Weakness.  A common trait, familiar to my soul.  It lurks among my brain, cursing the control.  Once it seeps through my wounds, it overwhelms and engulfs me into a state of macabre emotions--of macabre treason and faults.  Those chains, still gripping tighter and tighter with my every fight. Yet, so alienating, they caress my skin with the cool, easing pierce that is not just my enemy here; but also best friend.  They retain me in my dwell hole and keep me sheltered from the pain from reality.  If I choose to face reality, and keep up with these challenges, they lose their grip and eventually let me sink away.  But soon, I cower, slip, and fall.  From the fear, the only choice left for me is to hang onto them; never letting go... 3

I observe the hatred and ignore the harmony.  My personality is, nonetheless, just royally fucked up.  It doesn't come from my heart.  It doesn't come from my soul.  My personality is derived from my torture chamber, twisted into states of confusion.  There are so many contradictory traits present, that I would not believe to call it a personality.  Hence, and nevertheless, it IS a personality; splintered.  Determined and fiery, yet rendering to no will-power, my soul to speak is a living (yet ironically dead) oxymoron.  I cannot be willing, without being willing to give up easily.  I cannot be patient, without first being intolerant.  I cannot declare my sympathy before I declare my hate.  Being oblivious to what's around me, I do not dare to hesitate or to voice my criticism.  It is far too difficult to explain how I truly feel, and even to conjecture would be a false understanding... 4

Seconds tick by.  Slowly time is being wasted and thrown away, while sitting in school, or working eight hours a day.  Occupying time and filling in the boredom gaps is the hypocritical bullshit of a mind which is anxious of death.  Not necessarily fear, nor apprehension, but suspense that licks at the wounds and feeds into the heart... 5

I only smile in the dark.  Light is unknown to me.  For who I am, darkness is my friend.  Darkness is my blood, my heart; my soul.  Darkness IS my light, the only familiarity to my mind.  Without it, I am nothing, I am no one.  Without it, I would be even more lost, more confused, and more betrayed.  I would leave myself more open to betrayal and to more lies.  More prone to break; more prone to insecurity.  Darkness though, IS my security.  I am more aware of what pain does throughout its torture, though I have not yet mastered control over myself.  Moreover, the aspect of obsession, and the aspect of addiction pulls me further into my hole, never lessening its grip.  The cut of my darkness weakens my skin and strengthens my insecurity.  Darkness is me.  Darkness is who I am... 6

And again, another painful realization, which infuriates me to an extent that not even the Devil shall interfere with, is drawn.  I've realized in my years of isolated, lonely years of growing up with hatred, that I am...everything I hate.  Everything I push to fight; that I try to escape; is present in myself.  Looking in the mirror, let alone, is a battle.  Failing to recognize the object of my hatred staring back at me.  Not knowing who those empty, blank eyes belong to; not knowing where the scornful glare belongs--Not knowing who I am.  But to walk each day knowing I am everything I loathe, knowing that I am living within a stranger, is one of the worst feelings.  Yet, this is my life.  This is what I have to live with. 7

Maybe God put me on this earth, knowing I'd have to live with these facts, and putting me through it for His mere leisure, and for the mere hell of it.  Religion flows in and out of my life.  At one point in my life, I'm pure Atheist.  The next, I'm agnostic.  And as I write this, my faith slips to ultimately believing, yet redeeming nothing.  Now, I'm where He wants me; free to hold me in His mighty vice, reprimanding my every move; never rewarding... 8

Never take life too seriously--no one ever gets out alive... 9

People flow in and out of my life.  Or maybe I'm the one flowing in and out of theirs.  Reserved, private, and quiet, I sit alone in this world, conjecturing my next move, contemplating a useless decision.  People fret and fuss over every minute and miniscule predicament, that they have no time to observe their lives and how they are throwing them away.  Being too occupied with their bullshitted excuses and problems, they don't even realize that step by step, they pull themselves into a hole of obsession and demand.  The parabolic stature here is that people do not completely control their lives, without their lives completely controlling them.  Once they think they have control over their actions and possessions, in reality their actions and possessions have control over them.  To an extent, I AM in control of myself, my life, and yes my actions.  But--emotions and weakness are overpowering every step, every thought.  Some things are not controllable, some are involuntary.  I hate how I can basically choose what I am more comfortable being--"happy" or depressed.  Moreover, when I "choose" to be "happy" I am really choosing to portray a facade.  Happiness is not my nature anymore, therefore, darkness and depression is uncontrollable... 10

From my experiences, the harder I try, the harder I hit the ground when I fail.  "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." Pending on what is being dealt with, the results can make you stronger within the soul, but weaker within the mind, and vice versa (if thought about it depth).11

My life is just a big game played on a court with no lights.  There are no teams, no coaches, and few spectators--mostly just random players and myself playing in our own little territories.  The arrogant aim for the dunk, and the laid-back aim for the layup with the ball (being their life) in their hands.  I, being neither arrogant, nor laid-back, choose not to play the game.  I walk around, traveling (as a violation), wandering between others and sulking in the overtime.  There are no referees to blow the whistle and commit me to the violation; but I know.  I lose myself in thought, and once again, I find myself alone in the dark.12

Over the years of my observations, I've noticed the habits, gestures, and expressions of certain people.  How they say certain things and what they'll do when they're sad, angry, and/or distracted.  I tend to provoke a discussion of disagreement, which I then sit back and observe the discussion unfurl into a fiery argument, astray of the original dispute.  It's almost as if I'm doing this on purpose, floating through life, provoking fighting and walking away from it, feeling accomplished.  Involuntarily, I observe the arguments, feeding into the knowledge, and picking up on overtones of the human nature.  My purpose in life might be to do such a thing to get others to take off the blindfold and see the reality.  Or maybe I do this to take off my own blindfold... I want others to see how I see; to feel what I feel.  I want them to experience this excruciating pain, so I bring forth those arguments, exposing the knowledge to them.  It never succeeds.  They go back to how they were, barely scarred from the experience, while I'm left alone, walking as a scar, myself.13

My mind seems as if its split.  Half is weak, while the other half is stronger.  Another paradox.  This strong half, is the dark side of me.  It is the boss--forcing and assigning; overlooking and overpowering.  It seems as I must listen to this side, and though I hate to, and though I fear to, it's the only authority I have left in myself.  This dark half rules my every action.  It prevents weaknesses from showing or surfacing.  It tells me that by bottling all my emotions inside, this is what makes me stronger.  The paradox is the fact that in the other half of my mind, knows that by doing so, I am really only making myself weaker and more prone to break easily.14

While in denial and bullheadedness, I retrace my thoughts and actions, and retrace my memories, and surface more painful realizations.  After realizing what I never wanted to foresee, I regretfully swallow my pride.  I realize that if I hadn't done something in the past, I would not be in situations in the present. or predicaments of the future.  I could even been a much better person; so much different.  Happier, even.  But as I think more in depth, I figure if I hadn't done something, I could easily of been worse and in an even more scrutinizing position.  And as I fight and battle myself on these thoughts, I contradict myself, wear out, and give up.15

I live in fear and apprehension of not only my life, but also of myself and what I'm capable and not capable of doing.  I live each day knowing nothing I do will ever be good enough or accepted in the eyes of others, nor in the eyes of myself.  I feel accomplished over turmoils that I cause and when I achieve something, I always feel that I could and need to do better.  No matter how small or large a task is, I feel that I can never live up to the expectation of it.  More weight is then added to my shoulders; more thoughts and feelings of failure is added to my conscience.  I seem to have little or no positive outlook for my future.  From a third-person point of view, I am watching myself wither away and slowly waste my life.  Yet without realizing it, I have the ball in my hands, without an option to pass it, and ready to cause a turnover...16

Manipulation is my successor.  Pride and darkness are my protegees.  Pride tangles itself and conforms to the ruthless veins in my heart.  It seeps through my eyes, skims my words; trails behind my actions.  The sheer trace of pride has the overwhelming control of self-destruction derived from a weakened source.  That weakened source attaches itself to the outermost emotion and to the innermost pain.  That weakened source is a cause of the darkness.  That weakened source claims the insecurity.  That weakened source, is also who I am...17

To paint or not to paint, is the question I continuously ask myself.  The fine lines flowing on a fragile easel; memorabilia of my past and reminders of my future.  Who says I can't be an artist?  Angry lines across the pink canvas, shaded indepthly and profusely with red paint.  I can make art, I can make beauty...18

The only trouble with this so-called beauty is the fact that it haunts me in my sleep.  It is my shadow.  This work of art is nonetheless profound obscurity in repression.  Its profound glory in the sinful pain.  I battle myself and try to render to my old self: the smiling little girl, purest of good memories and a clear mind.  She used to be happy; never could take a liking to the dark or loneliness even.  She never foresaw the red or flaws.  She was too blind, too ignorant to see the "impossibility."  Happiness is a liability; pain and loneliness are the assets that never file for bankruptcy...19

They say: "if at first you don't succeed, try try again," "If you fall off your horse, get right back on." 20

I find myself falling off my "horse" again, but this time, I haven't hit the ground yet.  I've fallen to the ground too many times, so maybe God is giving me a slight break.  But whenever I do hit the ground, I'm thinking twice about climbing back onto my horse again; afraid to fall while climbing on, would be an understatement.  I just don't feel like trying anymore.  I don't want to keep fighting for NOTHING.  I don't want to keep fighting to just plummet to the ground.  So when I hit the ground, I'll lie there bleeding crimson betrayal; lie there alone...in the dark.21

My life is like a hurricane, but mostly like a tornado.  It's always spiraling up and down, flinging dust and debris around; destructing everything in its path, and eventually self-destructs.  Then the eye of the storm will come into play--so calm and peaceful; collected, together.  Structured and stable.  But within a short amount of time, it's back to the destructiveness; back to its upward then downward spirals.  Yet, the storm never dies.22

I swallowed my pride a while ago.  But I've recently spewn it back up.  Its piercing addiction has ahold of me once more, and realize it may be grasping me forever.  And I hate myself again through the fallacy.  A game played is a game lost, a fact known within the walls of my torture chamber.  A game I expect others to play without judgement.  I ask myself continuously why I play this game.  Twisting situations into more than what they are to gain the acquired sense of a complex individual.  What kind of person does that?  A manipulative, sick and twisted person expecting pity, but says otherwise.  But then again, manipulation is my successor...23

Lately, the silver monotony has ahold of me so tightly, that I no longer care anymore.  It's as if those chains are cemented to me.  At times, I feel as if the silver is the only thing left to turn to.  I think once I am in control, time will tell if I brought this upon myself as a cry for help...or a cry for pity.  My silent cries must always be pitiful, for no one pays attention to them.  Sometimes, I'll cry aloud into the dark, grasping the air for hope, with the chains dangling from my wrists.  Reaching out into the dark, I grab what I think is my cure; my light.  And I find to my own comfort, it is my trustworthy silver...24

A minute goes by, and then an hour.  Days, weeks on end pass and still no one hears my screams.  I am still in my dwell hole in a deep forest of disillusioned thoughts, and unseen pictures, with the overwhelming effect of its darkness consuming and swallowing me whole.  Passerbys pass without the slightest urge to hesitate and listen.  Too ignorant these passerbys are.  Occasionally, someone will stop to think if they heard something.  But I expect now their usual response--Fear that this forest is manipulating them into believing its lies.  "It's just my mind playing tricks on me," they say. And others, "It's just the wind."25

And while retained in my hole, I sift amidst this dust, rendering yet again to the lost cause of this forsaken hell I call my life...26