Sometimes the Only Choice You Have is to Run

Sweet Dreams are Made of These

“Some of them want to use you,

Some of them want to get used by you,

Some of them want to abuse you,

Some of them want to be abused.”

“Jaime.  My name is Jaime.”

Until you seek fulfillment from/in/through yourself you will never find it.  Continue to define yourself by other people and you will continue to lack purpose. Meaning. Drive to live.

The Green-Tinted Room

I taste metal.

I’m alone in a room, it’s cold, I’m hot.  It smells of formaldehyde, and bleach.  The walls are green, tinted by the light from the slime-colored window.  The floor is made of bathroom-tile, stained with dirt, dust, and decay.

I look out the window.

Tinted green I see my friends.  People I love, and loved. People who shared my warmth in cold times, and my cold in dark times.  People who care for me.  I also see demons.  Retched gaunt, stooping and baring their filed teeth, as sharp as their nails.  Despite their hideousness, I recognize them as my enemies.  Insurgents in my life, fighting for control over me and rewards for themselves at the cost of my emotions.

Then I see him.

He has chains sewn to his arms, on one side: my friends and my family tug at the chains, they are his friends too.  The other side the demons pull with their decaying hands, laughing and sneering.  Crouched like spiders, their horde crawls along the chain, laughing and throwing insults. 

The demons win the tug-of-war.

Through the putrid window I see him break.  Cracking under the pull he yells, and falls to his knees; tears in his eyes. Alone and vulnerable now, the demons charge.  Chattering their teeth they fall upon him, tearing him apart through and through.  Ripping at his chest with claws of steel, and gnawing at his bone with teeth as sharp as blades. They laugh and laugh, and taunt the other group to intervene; to save their friend.

They do not move.

Tears well in the friends eyes, but the show of remorse is short lived.  They become bystanders, and demons themselves.  Some joining the slaughter, some sitting by idly, laughing and jeering as their former-friend is broken.

I break the glass.

Frantically, I run out to help him.  Scattering the demons, I find a man broken, beaten, scarred, but not dead.  His arms are ripped out of his joints, his legs are gashed and stained crimson. His face is…

His face is mine.

I help him up, and with his arm slung over my shoulder, I limp him into the green-tinted room, and to safety.  His friends stare, they do not recognize me, though their shame is palpable.  They do not enter the room.  They can’t.

Empty

There are times in my life that I find a positive side of everything.  I rationalize the bad with good and I make the best out of not-so-wonderful situations.  A glass-half-full guy.

Other times I find myself stuck outside the box looking at others and wondering why I can’t feel what they’re feeling: love, joy, comfort, happiness; sadness, anger, frustration.  I don’t feel, I watch and I observe, calculate and decide what the most appropriate response may be.  I find the taste of love to be a bitter and distracting one.  The taste of desire is one marked by swift and fleeting gratification.  

And then there are times when I feel nothing but pain.

I feel burdened by the eyes of those who think I am something I’m not.  Those eyes that think I’m all good, and those eyes that think I’m all bad.  The judging and hot eyes that would sooner find me alone chained to a chair to torture however they please.  The cool anger in the eyes of someone scorned whether on purpose or not.  

I feel hated.  And I always thought I could be the bad guy. But, I hate it. 

There’s nothing I can do, though.  There’s no way to show that I am not a disgusting jerk, an ignorant fool, a hateful asshole, an insensitive douche, a liar.  

So, I sit here at my desk, my neck sore and my head pounding. I sit in a cloud of sadness, and anger. Anger at myself, anger at my friends, anger at anyone and everyone. Thinking, plotting, manipulating every aspect of life in my head.  Allowing myself a sense of control. I sit here thinking and planning, but my glass is empty. 

Brain Spill

I’m so tired.

I’m tired of adapting to everyone’s desires.  I’m tired of tapping my empathy in everything that I do to try to see things from other people’s perspectives.  It hurts me right now, and I’m not suppose to go to sleep angry so I decided to write.

I’m tired of pretending to like most of the people I’m around.  I’ve been doing it since Middle School.  I’m tired of lying to everyone because I don’t trust them with my essence. I’m tired of being criticized for stupid SHIT (ironically, some of you may criticize me for using such vulgarity).  I’m tired of being a “sheep” in some herd of idiots that all think that they’re better than everyone else.

The politics of religion are this: if you’re raised a Christian, you’re better than that guy over there.  Don’t believe me?  Observe the world, because you’re blind.  I can securely say that more Christians do wrong by God than right.  Don’t believe me?  You’re blind, sheltered or in denial.  There’s a reason Christianity has a bad rap in this country, and it’s because most Christians are dicks.  So shut up about being stereotyped as a bad Christian and ADAPT to be a better person. Quit whining, nobody cares.

In Middle School, I got bullied ‘cause I was fat.  I was fat and I liked to do well in class, which got me bruised arms each day and worse.  I’ve gone through life terrified and over-sensitive to what other people think about me.  If somebody so much as comments on the amount I ate for dinner I retreat into a shell for subconscious defense.  I cried yesterday because I watched a video that reminded me of Middle School.

I’m tired of fake people.  I’m tired of fake friends. I’m tired of talking about my fake friends to my fake friends.  I’m tired of my fake friends talking to my real friends about me behind my back.  I’m tired of my friends leaving me out.  I’m tired of being alone in my apartment.

I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired.