This My Diatribe
Live to the point of tears
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“I’m sure that I will always be
A lonely number like root three
The three is all that’s good and right,
Why must my three keep out of sight
Beneath the vicious square root sign,
I wish instead I were a nine
For nine could thwart this evil trick,
with just some quick arithmetic
I know I’ll never see the sun, as 1.7321
Such is my reality, a sad irrationality
When hark! What is this I see,
Another square root of a three
As quietly co-waltzing by,
Together now we multiply
To form a number we prefer,
Rejoicing as an integer
We break free from our mortal bonds
With the wave of magic wands
Our square root signs become unglued
Your love for me has been renewed”
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Once upon a time
I had created my own reality.
This is not a unique thing. Every person lives within the confines of their own world. We are riddled with fantasy, we like to create ideas that fit our needs, our desires, and keep us safe from our fears. In my own I had erected a muse. A delicate thing that attracted my every thought. I loved this muse, utterly, hopelessly, and with complete abandon. I imagined my love to always be reciprocated; that in some way this muse processed my doings and had concluded the same love and desire that I myself had. I assumed an equal level of devotion on her part, that the love was felt mutually, hand in hand. The problems with this reality was, it wasn’t real. I had created a false center to my universe. A pinpoint of my thoughts and emotions that was pinned in nothingness, in a non-existent space and time. I lived for years under the power of my warped perception and had surrendered to a love that never was.
My reality was bitter. It existed infinitely, its ends unseeable until i realized, it was all just my imagination.
I had produced an illusion of love. I had a muse, who I never knew, a women I never truly saw, a voice that spoke to me, wrote to me, but never shared an experience of affection with, never made a memory that could consume a whole day. I had simply manipulated my mind to stream a steady reel of thoughts and feelings that played in loop. That love was nothing more than a figment in my head. I never loved because I never knew, I never knew because I never experienced, I never experienced because I was alone, my muse was not my own, I never had her, I never caught her eye.
So once upon a time I left my psychosis, my schizophrenic state, walked into reality and realized, we never loved at all.
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I have a voice inside my head.
It started whispering to me many years ago
Words floated in my head, manifested as lulls, buzzing sounds, slowly forming mumbles, eventually achieving some clarity, but always speaking without pattern or reason.
Why it spoke I still don’t know.
It told me things, fed my inner ear all the sweetness it could handle. The rolling whispers, became screeching gysers. Blasting to some unknown command, blaring and seducing me.
I loved the voice inside my head.
It wooed me when it spoke. Showed me worlds I never knew before. It reflected me in every way I wasn’t. Established a personality so intoxicating that the effects are terminal. You become utterly and completely insane.
Reality was skewed by that voice inside my head.
It was a creation of my mind, limited by the capacity of my own unconcious, yet It spoke to me, molded me, influenced me, changed me, drained me, hurt me, stabbed me, killed me. I had no control over it, rather, it had me at its very whim. How could my own appiration manipulate me in every way when I breathed it life?
The thing about appirations, if you entreat them, believe them, accept them, they are no longer creations, they are creators. They sculpt servants of us, one beckons at their every whim.
She, my voice
She was my muse, my fatal, murderous muse. Beautifully mutilating my sanity untill its shreded remains could no longer hold the fibers of my mind together.
She killed me.
My cure was simple.
*click*
I just needed a trigger
*click*
One that would create some forecfull reaction
*click*
That would remove the figiment out of my head
*click*
Something that would drown out the voice. Something loud enough to kill it
*bang*
Death never tasted so sweet
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Just to clarify.
I am not suicidal.
I write pretty weird and dark stuff on my tumblr page.
It generally revolves around personal stuff thats going on in my life
But I woke up to three texts of people wanting to talk to me because they thought I was going to kill myself.
I’m not.
I don’t plan on it.
Stop texting me about it.
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Tonight I am going to perform a very delicate procedure.
My medical tools will be:
A specially calibrated bullet
And a revolver.
The bullet will be placed into one of six lovely chambers that will be triggered until the chamber of said bullet is ignited from which the meatalic device will leave the barrel of the gun and lodge into my right temple.
The purpose of this procedure is simple To dislogue the voices inside my head.
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I realized how mundane it all is. Life is this grand illusion. It is: waiting for, pursuing, dreaming, striving towards, gaining, achieving, believing. Life is by definition always a pursuit, never an acquisition. We live day by day seeking a sliver of some “thing” that at all points, in every hunt, at ever corner, evades our grasp. And then we die, having lived only in pursuit, only in a chase of something never to be had, never to have obtained.
I want to “have” something in this life. I want to own, attain, collect, procure, seize, to reap the fruit of some labor. I want an end, not a pointless toil, not some journey that in the end is the prize itself. I don’t want to roll this boulder up the hill every again. I want to smash it, weather it, erode it down so that I can finally make a success rather than and trial, so that I can have an conclusion rather than a “…”
