Dedicated to those that feel the same.
I pick through the stories that clutter my mind. Digging at wounds that should have been forgotten long ago. Yet here I lay, another three o’clock testimonial to the person I’ve become. I dampen my head with a cold towel and calm my gut with warm heat. Interchanging to two at the appointed time, seeking a certain comfort that never comes.
A miserable soul living a miserable life. Too responsible to abuse myself in the classical sense. But willing to drag out my pain through a thousand tiny cuts. What is the comfort in such self-abuse? Is it some learned helplessness that craves attention? Or is it the only way I perceive love through the harsh training of abuse? Too many questions with too few answers for me to grasp. For I live in a world of simple logic, pretending to be something I’m not.
So I write and I write. Spilling the blood of a lifetime in selfish pain. Told by my peers to pray and forget it. But my prayers never got any farther than the ceiling. I cannot “will myself happy” nor can I tolerate any more of this pain. So I live through the ebbs and flows of this mortal flesh. Searching for emptiness within a noisy world.
All post written by
FD Thornton, Jr
All Rights Reserved.