I started writing things to escape; I prefer to live my life sedated and attempt to commit mental suicide than to be a part of the world that is around me. I’m retracting myself into this mental jail as if I were a senile turtle scared of the things around so it’d live within itself. I’m going to commit sins of omission and leave everyone around with question marks and looks of distinguished inquisitiveness across their brows. I’d like to dedicate my agony to my family, my listless love life, and most importantly: Me.
I’ve always tried to excel at being who I am, or what I am. I’ve lost track of my identity. I used to believe that I was this magnificent man of some importance and intelligence. I’ve proven myself wrong. Lately I’ve felt like a malicious-livid-bastard child with no intentions of making anything promising that could advance oneself.
I want to escape the out of the borders of reality and live in some fictional world where I can imagine everything the way I want it to be, and I exist the way I wish I could.
Recently I’ve been thinking if this is truly the life that I was leading; my good heart matches my kind spirit.
Yet everything… everything feels untrue.
Probably due to my loss of identity I find it laughable that I used to want to identify with the goons and cliques around me as if I could find some common ground.
I’ve lost touch with the ones who used to associate themselves with me; I leave a life of esoteric standards.
Wrote myself a reality check so that as soon as I find the courage to grow up I’ll have some knowledge prior to the things I’ll get myself into.
Writing seemed to always be a constant power in my life. My angry adolescent days divided between trying to refine this passion of mine and trying to find the meaning behind my own name and who I am.
I don’t write about how I party hard or how I do things because my emotions overwhelm me.
I do everything simply because I choose too.
Drugs, drinks, everything is a temporary escape that all come at a cost.
I’m afraid to wake up one morning and I’ll meet my doom. I’m not afraid of the death, I’m afraid that I won’t make the right phone calls and I won’t let the right people know I love them.
Maybe I’m scared because I’m still so lost I’m trying to escape from my life, it’s out of place and I can’t make it fit.
When I die, I hope an angel cries out from the heavens and pulls up above with her, I hope that angel looks like my mother, I hope she grabs me up and holds me and tells me that I’m worth it. That I put enough effort into my life to finally be something great that’s what all I’ve ever wanted.
I’ve sinned and I’ve lied. Too often do I fake the happiness that I seem to be bursting with, I don’t have much hope for myself. Yet I put high hopes and praise into others.
I can’t seem to escape, so I’ll keep writing until I finally find some freedom.