Comments on: My world… my pain… my choice http://www.creepzone.com/bashing-thru-the-madness/90/my-world-my-pain-my-choice/ My life, my love, Hate, and My joke..... Fri, 05 Dec 2008 08:54:29 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.6.1 By: George http://www.creepzone.com/bashing-thru-the-madness/90/my-world-my-pain-my-choice/#comment-753 George Mon, 16 Jun 2008 13:19:01 +0000 http://www.creepzone.com/bashing-thru-the-madness/90/my-world-my-pain-my-choice/#comment-753 Man. Well, what can one say to such a thing. Not much that you wont coldly turn away as more ignorance and misunderstanding. I like to think that me and you are very similar in many ways, but I'm sure you disagree. But perhaps you can agree, that whoever I am and regardless of how similar our natures are, we are similar in the sense that the silent torment has broken us into unclassifiable shapes; ghosts of the material the world. Lonesome deep divers of the psyche, who are taken in by those black corners of self that are best left untouched by many. I think also you have chosen to be where you are, and even for all the pain you will still not have it any other way. Hateful love. Preferring to drink the deep painful mouthfuls of sorrow rather than sipping the shallow pleasures of yesterday. I think we are also similar in this way. Ironically, through insanity, turmoil and the burning anguish within you that you vomit up daily, your body has been crushed and mangled into a dark beast, and yet, you have attained a greater understanding of self, far beyond that of those described as regular. I believe they call people with this understanding 'crazy'. I call them honest. Perhaps this is also common between us. I do not intend to share my problems with you, as you did not intend to share them with me. This passage you wrote is not the sharing of your problems, not calling for someone to help you up off your feet, not a weak cry for assistance, but simply the expression of your own burden to yourself, in the hope that she may brush her eyes across this text, and, in her understanding, silently cry at having found you. If you follow, then I think, once again, we share this same form of weight. You have seen the edge of time and kissed the lips of ignorance, and now, with your scarred and shadowy soul you collapse and scream into the night with such passion and loss that the very foundations of the universe ripple, unnoticed by all. Its funny. I always laugh at this point. There is something so ironic about insanity. I think its that for all this endurance, passion, depth and character, there is not a single person it can be shared with, because it is so intensely unique. But that is another thing... Ah yes. Bandits. Outlaws. Aliens. Ghosts. Possessed. Whatever mediocre fucking expression you want to use for it. None of them are ample enough. It can only be defined as the banishment from being medium. To be forever definite and extreme. To be forever cursed away from reaching satisfaction nor understanding. This I believe we defiantly have in common. So, why even bother to justify myself as being of the same mentality as you? Why even try show how we are in the same ordeal? If I you are as disconnected as I think I am why even write this? Why even give a shit? I think you already know the answer to that. I do know one thing for sure. The first and last lines of your passage I have breathed before, in this eternal micro life of mine. And through the thousands of years I have understood very little of what people say. But, this passage I understand. This text I can read more than once. ah yes. Not only read. But feel. Once the night comes and I sit on my bed slipping away I shall feel your words slip their cold hands into my back and like a swift poison, flush into my chest. And with an irrational smile I shall once again throw out my arms to the tides of darkness, laughing hysterically with myself by my side, drowning in the shadowy waters of a brief sleep. Man. Well, what can one say to such a thing. Not much that you wont coldly turn away as more ignorance and misunderstanding. I like to think that me and you are very similar in many ways, but I’m sure you disagree. But perhaps you can agree, that whoever I am and regardless of how similar our natures are, we are similar in the sense that the silent torment has broken us into unclassifiable shapes; ghosts of the material the world. Lonesome deep divers of the psyche, who are taken in by those black corners of self that are best left untouched by many.

I think also you have chosen to be where you are, and even for all the pain you will still not have it any other way. Hateful love. Preferring to drink the deep painful mouthfuls of sorrow rather than sipping the shallow pleasures of yesterday. I think we are also similar in this way. Ironically, through insanity, turmoil and the burning anguish within you that you vomit up daily, your body has been crushed and mangled into a dark beast, and yet, you have attained a greater understanding of self, far beyond that of those described as regular. I believe they call people with this understanding ‘crazy’. I call them honest. Perhaps this is also common between us.

I do not intend to share my problems with you, as you did not intend to share them with me. This passage you wrote is not the sharing of your problems, not calling for someone to help you up off your feet, not a weak cry for assistance, but simply the expression of your own burden to yourself, in the hope that she may brush her eyes across this text, and, in her understanding, silently cry at having found you. If you follow, then I think, once again, we share this same form of weight.

You have seen the edge of time and kissed the lips of ignorance, and now, with your scarred and shadowy soul you collapse and scream into the night with such passion and loss that the very foundations of the universe ripple, unnoticed by all.

Its funny. I always laugh at this point. There is something so ironic about insanity. I think its that for all this endurance, passion, depth and character, there is not a single person it can be shared with, because it is so intensely unique. But that is another thing…

Ah yes. Bandits. Outlaws. Aliens. Ghosts. Possessed. Whatever mediocre fucking expression you want to use for it. None of them are ample enough. It can only be defined as the banishment from being medium. To be forever definite and extreme. To be forever cursed away from reaching satisfaction nor understanding. This I believe we defiantly have in common.

So, why even bother to justify myself as being of the same mentality as you? Why even try show how we are in the same ordeal? If I you are as disconnected as I think I am why even write this? Why even give a shit? I think you already know the answer to that.

I do know one thing for sure. The first and last lines of your passage I have breathed before, in this eternal micro life of mine. And through the thousands of years I have understood very little of what people say. But, this passage I understand. This text I can read more than once. ah yes. Not only read. But feel. Once the night comes and I sit on my bed slipping away I shall feel your words slip their cold hands into my back and like a swift poison, flush into my chest. And with an irrational smile I shall once again throw out my arms to the tides of darkness, laughing hysterically with myself by my side, drowning in the shadowy waters of a brief sleep.

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