One Step Closer And You Die.
Like Robin, like Darcie, like Darkon, I would too, like to tell you: I write shit. Not only do I write shit, but I’m trying my best to take what I experience each day and translate it into words without sounding like I was on a bad acid trip most of the day, that and fight my writers ADD.
First, let me just introduce myself to those who don’t know me, and also to those who think they might know me as well: I am a man of wealth and taste, I pray you know my name. I am the person that loves drug-induced love stories for the simple fact that the surreality of emotions that exist during trips is so compelling, I find it almost beyond what we can feel on a normal plane of emotion. I am the person who has to listen to post-rock that lacks vocals just to find the emotion, the creativity, the gusto (if you will) just to sit here and type to myself. I am the person that wants the world to cry out for him and yet doesn’t want the help of others, I just want to find that one person that makes the stupidity of life vanish for a split second. I am the person so jaded by love, that at the ago of 21 it still becomes difficult just to give trust to a single person.
I hate making everything I write about is emotions, I’d like to tear myself away from that unfiltered world of feighning responsibility, lies and deceit; yet I am so attached to it, it’s like the battered wife that returns to her husband because it is all that she knows, and her logical sense is replaced by the dilusion of “safety”. I’d love to tell someone that I am stable, but yet I haven’t been able to take more than two weeks of being alone before I almost completely collapse, but you know what? I’m only going to get into this kind of thing when it becomes relevant, and right now, it’s not.
I don’t know if it’s a coincidence, but you posted this entry on the day that my boyfriend died. I don’t know. You mentioned my name on the wretched day that changed my whole life.