It feels like we're already flying but the air is too thin and we're dying. The clouds all around take us higher, the world far below is on fire. I hold out my hand just to touch you. A reason for being forever. You're just a whisper away.
  Startseite
  Über...
  Archiv
  Gästebuch
  Kontakt
 

  Abonnieren
 


 
Letztes Feedback

http://myblog.de/awhisperaway

Gratis bloggen bei
myblog.de





 
Stop crying your heart out.

Drunky, drunky Drama-Queen writing.

I want to quit. I want to quit all of this. No matter how hard I try, I always seem to fall into this same shitty pattern. The later it gets, the more miserable I become. Why do I become this anyway?

I felt sooooo~ good today, yes I did. I felt so damn good yesterday. Because I thought I had gotten over this, over you. I smiled at strangers passing by, I laughed heartily whilst on my own in the forest. I never do stuff like that. 

I tried every-fucking-thing to get over this. I rode my bike, several times, I went jogging, I went for a walk, ... I wanted to stop thinking about this for a while. At least for the holidays. I guess I failed. I suck so bad. I can't sleep. It's getting late, you know. 

Do you know creating a dream in your head before you finally try to relax and fall asleep? Do you know how exhausting it gets to do that every fucking night? Do you know how alone one feels who starts talking to one's self, everytime there is a door to be locked and nobody hears you? Do you know how it feels to be the only one being interested in what you have to say? And do you know how hard it is to stay interested?

I mean, I heard this all in my head. I heard it all talking to myself once and twice and a hundred times. I'm tired of hearing me talk to myself. 

How schizo does that sound to you bitch, huh?

Yeah, never call me back, never care...I know you have a hard life. Mine is just kindergarden, right? I have nothing to worry about. NOTHING! Which - as a matter of fact - equals ... nothing. 

Yes, good night. I hope there are more insomniacs out there, sitting in front of their computers, trying to get through time. 

Heureka!

 

28.4.11 04:08


Werbung


Dear Mister Loverboy,

I hate how I see you - as this perfect, unique being that is so flawless; it hurts to look at that face. It hurts to think about this pretty face and dream about it, faking it.

And it hurts even more to lose this image. And I lost it. I feel unsafe now that it is gone. Because if this goes, I don't know why to kneel down and cry. Because now this last "real" reason for feeling this way is destroyed.  Because now I really DO feel like a silly, angry teenager with all this angst inside my belly. 

I can feel everything breaking down inside of me. It's not even heartache as it used to be or as I know it. It's not that type that makes me plan a concept to kill myself. It's not that type that had me fall into despair. It's the feeling that I was wrong. That everything I had imagined about you was an illusion. It's like you died and I have to stay away from your funeral, because nobody knows about this. There is no way to kiss you goodbye. I cannot bid you farewell.

The person that I see now has nothing. The person I see now is not the one I used to draw out of my memory within minutes on the train, in my sleep. This is someone else. And I don't know where to run to now. I am totally lost...!

This might even be a better reason to leave this ugly place.

This is the point where I have nothing left to lose, so thank you. I can skip second guessings now, being pleased by just knowing you. I can skip all that bullshit now. 

I want to go. I want to go. I want to fucking go.

4.4.11 22:52


Path...etic?

Am I pathetic being home on a saturday night? Alone?

I guess so. But sometimes I think I am better off this way. There is nobody to harm my oh so sensitive mood. It's pathetic. I cry while watching Teenage-Soaps about break-ups and first kisses. And I fucking cry like a baby while sipping wine and some strange liquor and coffee and eating espresso chocolate, getting fatter and fatter. 

Yes, I do feel ugly. Sometimes. I don't know. I am longing for somebody to tell me that I am beautiful and intelligent (who would? I even wrote "intellegant" at first, so what am I). Not my mom or my friend, but a lover. Oh screw that. I don't really want a lover. I don't like to be touched. At all. 

I am so confused that I cry all the time. Without reasons. I even thought about seeing a therapist because I feel like I have nobody to talk to. My friend has other problems and doesn't really take anything serioulsy in her so-called bad condition. And her boyfriend - the psycho- doesn't talk to me. So why should I? My parents are fighting, my brother is struggling with university, too. So who is there? I don't like burdening people. As I said before, I guess. 

But I need advice. How can I handle this or that and how do I get over this and that. And well...I grieve daily. And cry daily. And listen to the Smiths. Wallowing in self-pity.

Oh mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head. 

What is more obvious than that? But I got ya, Morrissey, I got ya!

 

27.3.11 03:15


Crap.

Wow, I mean seriously...wow.

So much stuff happening all at once. Like always. First you don't know what to handle and when and then you're idle. I'm both. 

I cannot do anything that helps others. I feel so ashamed and useless because so many friends of mine seem to live a crappy life and it goes crappier by the minute and me? I'm fine, but still miserable. 

Why and how could I complain to them?

I always seem to get away from bad things, which with no doubt is a good fucking thing. Nobody talks behind my back about me. Those who do, well, I do know about and I feel fine with it mostly. But I want to complain. Because for me it starts with these small things. Of course that's no big deal for somebody who got raped or physically destroyed by a parent - which I obviously had no contact with - but for me it does. And funny thing or not...that fact does tear me apart in my depression. It's the deepest pain I know if you take away heartbreak...Which maybe also is nothing compared to being tortured almost to death. 

But I think and I guess I'm right...I am not in the position to compare pain... BUT something in my chest is seriously damaged and I accepted it, because I don't have the means to change it and so I don't complain about it....But why oh why can I not complain about these trvival things to you anymore?

I don't wanna burden you and your crappy lives. 

 

10.3.11 23:57


God is going to get sick of me.

Isnt it very very selfish to think that god will care anyway? isnt it very self conscious to tell that he will never leave no matter what? Arent you ever afraid of god getting sick of you? I am constantly afraid that people get sick of me. And sure thing that god is going to get sick of me in the end. I am so bitchy sometimes and moody and pissy. Not at all a nice girl to hang around with. Why should god hang around with me? I am not that full of myself. Why should he ALWAYS care? Why should he always stay? I am selling shit, I am babbling shit and talking just to talk sometimes, scaring people and lovers away. Sometimes I am so full of myself too. Why shouldn't he? Huh? He must be sick of the thoughts in my head always doubting and questioning everything he made. Questioning me and his world, his people. Everything. Questioning him. Pulling pages out of the bible. Burning crosses or miniature churches. He sure is sick of me. He must be and I don't blame him anymore. It's okay. I have to save myself anyway.
5.1.11 21:21


A start.

This is me. The RED QUEEN to some - I let their heads roll.

I still live because of an inborn existence-will. The wanting to be heard and to change. 

But now I am (as all of you) a slave to this world. Even though THEY almost sucked me completely dry, I have a  head to be ripped off. 

This is the HEAD talking. Because I am the PUZZLED TYPE.

But as the opposite of life is not death but birth, then - what is it? I hope I am about to find out. 

 

7.9.10 02:07


[erste Seite] [eine Seite zurück]



Verantwortlich für die Inhalte ist der Autor. Dein kostenloses Blog bei myblog.de! Datenschutzerklärung
Werbung