There are some things I can’t get over, no matter how hard I try.
I’ve had tons of personal growth in the past few months- I’ve tried, and tried. It’s legitimate enough, to say that. It’s worked for the most part.
I make ridiculous mistakes, from checking things, from writing things. I try not to do these things, and I occasionally fail.
I can’t handle more leaving, I can’t wrap my head around it. I can’t even breathe while the thought of anyone else jumping ship is in my head. I can’t have any more nights of pleading, of crying, of screaming. Not because I can’t live through it, I live and I breathe. But because I don’t want to take another step back. I don’t want to take another ten steps back. I’m taken a million steps forward, I’ve counted each one, and one step back is losing something. I’m where I need to be now, and I won’t let go of it.
I care entirely too much, contradicting the cold demeanor. Contradicting the distance I give everyone.
I do not cling anymore, and for good reason. I can’t. I don’t like to think about anything in the past, at this point. It’s poison.
I’ve been trying to get by and I have. I’m doing wonderfully, but there’s nights like this where my chest feels so heavy and I don’t know how you’re standing on it hundreds of miles away. I still think. I still wonder how it is in your life.. i want nothing else than to talk about that. Let you rant. Let me listen. I don’t think I’d say a word. Just listen and take it all in. Tell me how the morning air felt in detail. Or perhaps how the eve played by. Or maybe how the ceilings doing. But I don’t deserve that. Not that solace, I fucked that up. I hope, no avail. I’ll try to stop thinking about it- just as was asked.
Aside from that, my mind wanders elsewhere. To past mistakes and to future ones, to accomplishments and more.
I am beyond stressed. I’ve got my nose in schoolbooks. I’ve got my head in the clouds and my everything hurts. In this moment. 5 in the morning.
I am breathing, but hardly. It’s always better after sleep, which comes soon. I live. I’ve hopefully got things to look forward to tomorrow, people to fuck with, skype calls to be in, people to call faggot-satanists, places to be and Mirandas, Adams, Allis, and Ashs to talk the shit with.
Oh. And braces shit. That too. I need a cigarette.
Lets just recap the fact that I attempted to write something for my character while in the clutches of an insane need to write-
And it came out looking like a history textbook that I was entirely disgusted with. So that got deleted. Now we’re here.
Where I’m extremely upset over something so ridiculously simple that I’ve came to the conclusion that my writing is the only redeeming quality I’ve got. So when that’s gone, (I think I’m losing my fucking ability to create anything beautiful that shows I’ve got a fucking soul) I’m probably D+ at best.
A gross personality, a gross attitude. I’m rude, bitchy, too honest with my opinions and words most times, no tact, I’ve got a large temper, so fucking wonderfully sarcastic, and no sense of care for probably anybody.
There are certain things I constantly think about is-
To the outside, what does everything I do look like?
I am my own worst critic. I over analyze everything, while fully knowing other people don’t do the same. Though there are certain things people do notice, do think.
What does my material state look like? The unstraightened bedsheets, the mountains of pillows and the pieces of scribbled paper, bunched into balls all over it.
The ashes that coat the right side of my desk, that I constantly blow at to get them off- they only end up behind the mountain of incense and perfume jars.
The sheets hung up upon everything that doesn’t have a top- because without everything having a roof, it’s not done correctly. It’s incomplete.
What do my creations look like? My silly characters, my Inatra and my Zephyr. Both completely different boys- both completely perfection.
The Polaroid laid over the couch, and the stacks of guitars that I occasionally pluck at leaning against the bed.
The scribbled over mirrors, the organized chaos I delve into.
There are more things I think about; while I leave my cave, who comes in and sees things; exactly where I left it, exactly how I last touched it.
I like to think everything someone touches leaves a mark, an extension of themselves.
Then there’s the things folded and placed into a box oh-so-carefully, tucked under the bedside table so delicately. The most respectful goodbye I could have ever said. Not to be seen nor touched. It’s a living extension, and it would be just as rude and invasive to see it or hold anything as it would be speaking a word.
What do I look like, cuddled up in bed and hiding under mountains of blankets as protection, as some sort of salvation from the outside world?
And what vibes does my beloved shower hold? The one I wrap myself in multiple times a day, cleansing the bad of the world off; and of course, the intrusive germs. The parasites. It’s my safe haven, and I wonder if it shows that.
My world is one that I wonder about. Wonder how it looks. Wonder how it feels.
These past few days I’ve felt the most real I have in months; years. Without the lies. Without the baggage; (Oh, trust me. I’m still an emotional wreck. It’s just kept inside, this time around.)
But this time I’m free; independent. Stronger than ever, and with a smile on my face.
And I wonder why.
I keep looking up, but god,
these ceilings have faces
and the stars have eyes.
This mirror is lying to me
Puppy dog eyes and a crooked smile.
Gorgeous, endless night.
I have an odd sense of being in the wrong place when I speak to my father; not because he is a bad man. Not because he is a bad person.
Because I’ve never gotten to know him. He’s a ghost around the house- he’s there, but he’s not. We live together, inches away, but sometimes, we go months without a single word, and it’s no exaggeration.
I see myself in him. I see my eyes. I see my nose. My smile. I don’t want to every see myself stuck like him. Stuck in a terrible home with a terrible wife. Stuck in job interviews and stuck in every single corner of life that can chain him.
I think about how it must feel. To have gone through the world, with such a terrible companion at his side. I’m starting to see now why this distance is for good reason- we shouldn’t join together to speak about his wife, my mother. It can only end in catastrophe that only verifies every negative facet of her- it’s not surreal as it seems.
This may be the first time I’ve actually cried in a month; I didn’t even shed one single fucking tear whenever that last situation happened. To realize that this is where I’m stuck. It’s not a dream. I can’t get out. I wasted my opportunity already. This shit hole, BOWL of a town is where I get to reside until I can bolt as fast as I can in one and a half year’s time. I’ll set this place in fucking flames.
There’s a reason behind everything. I’ve tried to tell everyone- tried to tell everyone that they didn’t know me- not a single damn thing. It sounded angsty, I’m sure.
I don’t think many people can understand the concept of thinking people that love you have evil intentions. That everyone that claims to care for you is out to get you. So you know what I do?
I lie. Now, the silly thing is- it’s not all for attention. That is perhaps, 1% of the legitimate reason. Everything is terrifying when paranoia exists. Everything is so, so scary. I lie to hide things that are actually happening. I blow them up, so I have a reason to be upset- happy- scared- but it’s not the real reason. No one knows what went on behind empty words.
I am not a bad person. I am true. I am me. I am Sidney.
But I am stronger than what most people think I am. I can face the world on my own. I always have been able to. I have always been able to take care of myself. I have never needed coddling, babying, anyones arms. Taking care of myself- it’s never been a single issue.
Loving myself. That’s an issue. Because who could love themselves, when they look in the mirror and see what I am? But I’m Sidney.
A strong, independent, loud spoken, brutal and (usually) honest person, where no opinions are held back, even at the expense of others. I am me.
I’m sick of throwing around lies to save myself. I’m sick of having a wall up. That has ruined my life. That has ruined me. That has forced me to flip a switch and shut it all off.
This is no one’s fault but my own.
I am far beyond perfect. I may be close to broken, but I haven’t broken yet. I’m cracked. Still, I fucking sit here and I fucking taking it all with a fucking smirk on my face and strength that goes for miles, even while everything hurts.
I am emotional. I am a ‘bitch’, but I can’t change for anyone- no one but myself.
And fucking lord knows it hurts. It hurts so bad. Everything does. Jesus Christ it all burns.
But it’s time to let people in. Finally open the gates of the thousand mile tall wall I’ve built. So people can see who I am.
I -wasn’t- lying when I said people didn’t know me. No one truly knew me. I was always bitching and moaning about it. It fucking hurt. It was so hard. I always took down one brick- then put it right back up again. This fort, the one that hid me so well.
Trust- that’s something that is so fucking hard to give. Why?
Maybe that’s because I know people like me exist.
And we’re not bad. Just hiding. And that’s a scary thought. Someone living with my own mindset- maybe they’d know me too well, come to know me too fast, and I’d hide. Again.
Sometimes- it’s scary to think about how you may just be responsible for someone’s suicide.
"Is this your wife? What a lovely throat."
Oddly enough, my life is better than I thought it would be at this time.
I’ve calmed down a lot as a person, it seems. I’ve chilled the fuck out and practically don’t give a fuck about anything anymore- and it’s wonderful.
The feeling of being calm at all times, some silly smirk on my face, and messing around.
These past few weeks I’ve been surrounded with nothing but people, on my computer, and outside of it as well. I really haven’t had a single moment alone- being in calls of people, usually at least five or six of them.
PvP day in and day out, with little spots of RP here and there.
Think I’ve finally found my place to stay- with these relaxed people who show no signs of leaving or dipping out, that I can sit here and fuck with and still be loved after.
Perfect. And I say this with five idiot’s voices in my ear, yelling about “THEY CALL ME SENPAI, GET THE SAPBAAAT.”
THEY CALL ME SENPAI, COME HERE MOTHAFUCKA SMACK YOU WITH THE CLEAVE.