This monster in me is a howling thing that bites and and tears at the walls of my stomach. It makes me shudder, crawling beneath my flesh and through my bones and blood. I scratch at my skin, my chest and tear my hair out, trying so hard to get the little fucking creature out of me, but still it nestles in my womb, sneering and snarling like a terrible little fetus of pain.
I started laughing as I read this line later, it's such an awful and sickening
image, why am I so typical...
Christmas eve haunts me. My mind is constantly revisited by these vibrant and incredibly intense flashbacks that honestly terrify me. There is such an immense feeling of sorrow and abandonment attatched, I can barely take it. I am filthy. I am disgusting. I am a whore and a slut and everything that I despise. I am sick. I lie on this couch for hours staring numbly into the television, watching the pixels flash and change until they blur into pointless forms that talk and move exaggeratedly. I wait for night when everyone seems to fall away from the earth, when the rooms of this house are so silent I can hear a sonic trembling in my head(I can't even describe it with words [and I call myself a "writer" ha!]). I wait restlessly for night, when I can drink myself into that repressed and unsettled sleep. How strange to be so very fucking lost and yet stuck in one place.
My writing may jump unintentionally. I try hard to tie all of these tangents together with a common theme. But when I reread my words, they seem so transparent and empty, it's as if none of what I write makes any sense at all and it's hopeless to even try and make it sound coherent, let alone interesting. In conclusion; I apologize if I bore you, but then you wouldn't have read this far if I had, I suppose.
It seems that while my inner stability and world crumbles, everyone around me is experiencing the same. Friends falling back into addiction, mentally worn and abused. I hate that my self absorption blinds me to the pain of others until it's too late to help. If I could save just one person from their own destruction, perhaps my selfishness would be forgotten...
“I was drawn to all the wrong things: I liked to drink, I was lazy, I didn't have a god, politics, ideas, ideals. I was settled into nothingness; a kind of non-being, and I accepted it. I didn't make for an interesting person. I didn't want to be interesting, it was too hard. What I really wanted was only a soft, hazy space to live in, and to be left alone.”
Charles Bukowski
