This is really gripping. I feel like this comes from an honest place.
This is really gripping. I feel like this comes from an honest place.
•
Overtones of Hell
How I escape the pain
Please note:
the impression isn't to give the reader a sense that the writer is making excuses for his behavior. This is a bad habit, and one the writer deeply regrets.
I'm buried now.
Not under soil, or any such natural substance, but under the encumbering weight of the burden life has become. If i could describe what has entombed me, it is something related to hopelessness that souls such as myself succumb to.
It all started when I lost 3 people dear to me in a short span. Remember the old adage, "tragedies happen in threes?"
Well, it happened. Nothing can change it, nothing can fill the emptiness...
Well, I found something can, albeit in a fleeting moment. And that's where it all went wrong.
I was scared of needles once, was afraid to even go to the dentist. Flu shots were out of the question.
When you go through such losses, people only care superficially.
"Oh i'm so sorry for your loss."
"I know how you feel."
"I'm here for you."
But, deep down you know they don't mean it. They can't relate, and are trying to save face for their own sense of fabricated morality. They are liars, when you really digest the gravity of this conundrum.
You are probably beginning to think this story is becoming melancholy, that the writer hasn't broken the viscuous cycle of being chronically crestfallen.
The writer would ask that you please empathize, as the library has limited me to 30 minutes a day usage and I took the time to convey this instead of any number of things one can do with internet access.
I can't blame them. In the beginning, I would often spend many hours here with nowhere else to go.
Dear reader forgives me for cutting this diatribe early. Writing is suddenly becoming difficult. Anxiousness is kicking in. I am beginning to sweat, tremble and experience anxiety.
The memories, the painful memories
I will attempt to escape notice and use the library restroom, almost hoping when I hit the plunger this time the room of rest has a permanent effect on my mind
... until next time.
**Please note:**
the impression isn't to give the reader a sense that the writer is making excuses for his behavior. This is a bad habit, and one the writer deeply regrets.
---
I'm buried now.
Not under soil, or any such natural substance, but under the encumbering weight of the burden life has become. If i could describe what has entombed me, it is something related to hopelessness that souls such as myself succumb to.
It all started when I lost 3 people dear to me in a short span. Remember the old adage, "tragedies happen in threes?"
Well, it happened. Nothing can change it, nothing can fill the emptiness...
Well, I found something can, albeit in a fleeting moment. And that's where it all went wrong.
---
*I was scared of needles once, was afraid to even go to the dentist. Flu shots were out of the question.*
---
When you go through such losses, people only care superficially.
"Oh i'm so sorry for your loss."
"I know how you feel."
"I'm here for you."
But, deep down you know they don't mean it. They can't relate, and are trying to save face for their own sense of fabricated morality. They are liars, when you really digest the gravity of this conundrum.
You are probably beginning to think this story is becoming melancholy, that the writer hasn't broken the viscuous cycle of being chronically crestfallen.
The writer would ask that you please empathize, as the library has limited me to 30 minutes a day usage and I took the time to convey this instead of any number of things one can do with internet access.
I can't blame them. In the beginning, I would often spend many hours here with nowhere else to go.
Dear reader forgives me for cutting this diatribe early. Writing is suddenly becoming difficult. Anxiousness is kicking in. I am beginning to sweat, tremble and experience anxiety.
*The memories, the painful memories*
---
*I will attempt to escape notice and use the library restroom, almost hoping when I hit the plunger this time the room of rest has a permanent effect on my mind*
---
... until next time.
(post is archived)