I just miss you, is all. I miss us. I've made many mistakes in these past several months, said many things I wish I could rescind, been misinterpreted and misinterpreted you for drastically terrible results. I've imagined things I could only dream of saying to you, of things you could say to me, of how we could appreciate and love each other in an unreachable and idealistic yet utterly picturesque manner. I've held so much in, and let so much out. And despite all that, I'm still plagued by turmoil, by doubt, depression, anxiety, fear. Guilt. I've hit all time lows and felt ways I'd hate to experience again.

You've been there for me, despite all the negativity, the pessemism, the emotion. And it only throws me further into a downward spiral of self-hatred and worthlessness. You are the reason I keep the blade from my neck that you put into my hands. You are the drug and I the addict. You are a poisoned cure. And I am tentative to seek alternative treatment.

It upsets me to no end that in trying to get closer, I've only seperated us further apart. In bridging a gap, a caused a fissure, and I can only hope that it might narrow with time. Talking with you now is always a fearful encounter, and one I now avoid if possible. Until I am forced to converse or the hell in my head screams so loudly that I can't help but release it, I favor silence, that I migh not confirm my fears of your disdain, or have you think even less of me than I fear you already do. I'm stuck, slave to my inner assumptions, casting out any shreds of reality I might have left, succumbing to paranoia and despair.

But even now, I try to make amends, I desperately wish to, and yet I'm not even sure if such apologies are expected, or needed. This inner conflict is likely a war compared to the real situation, and yet I can't tear myself from it. I simply hope we can reconcile, reunite, and rejoice. No matter the pain, loving the you I've seen is something I doubt I could ever end, and your genuine and unique friendship is one I would be remiss to lose.

I just don't want this to continue in endless circles. I want peace, inner and interpersonal. I want joy, camraderie, content, happiness. I only hope beyond all odds you might allow me the chance. One favor more, that's all.

The thens, the nows.

The what if’s,

I mull them over

In the midnight’s brisk atmosphere,

I weep and wonder,

As the silence envelops me in a warm embrace.

“Continue.”

True Madness,

In it's most unrelenting form,

Is the consequence lurking behind the best moment of your life.

Madness,

Is loving someone unconditionally, obsessively, without reason or origin,

Only to have them resent you, belittle you and refute and deny your feelings,

So much so that they might force you to come to hate them.

Madness is to become the informed and pursued yet passive observer,

To know well the unrest of others, the inner turmoil they face, the hope you can give,

The support,

And to adamantly refuse, no matter the circumstance.

Madness is to omit the pained loved ones from life,

To ask the wellbeing of the less central and the superficial,

Only to reflect silence upon the sullen ghost of a true comrade.

Madness is refusing the heartfelt and passionate requests of the honest,

The hearts half-submerged in despair, trying desperately to find the leverage in you,

To stand up once more,

To change.

Madness is the inexpicable, or senselessly explained, hypocrisy you remain shrouded in,

The question desired in the morning delivered at the latest possible moment,

The love you claim to profess despite all this hate,

And the reciprocation of that in your perspective,

Madness is the clash of perspective,

Madness is miscommunication,

The good I see in you despite all the evil you now commit,

And the evil you see in me after all the good you commit.

So much so, that I lose myself completely,

That which makes me an identity,

All but name and body,

Faceless,

Forgotten,

Unknown,

Nothing.

In regards to life, I've come to view it with a simple and yet effective metaphor that appiles to myself, that of a pendulum. When the pendulum is still, I am in a state of stagnation, unable to feel good or terribly bad of myself, but rarely a peaceful kind of stasis. It is often instead time of brooding and reflection upon a grimy mirror. I can push this pendulum with eiter of my hands, the left indicating positivity, and the right negativity. And as I've experienced personally, whenever I push with my left hand, I push back reflexively with my right, returning this pendulum to a standstill. However, when my right hand pushes, my left is loath to move. The pendulum swings with negativity and hatred. I may push back many times, but always with little force. When I am so weak and desperate I might call upon the strength of my close and few friends to push back against this right hand. And yet, no matter the effort, even they struggle to match its strength. I never manage to push the pendulum with my left hand into motion. And there I sit. Caught in self-loathing, in unacceptance, in internalizing, in my weakness, in my worthlessness, in my despair. I think on suicide, I speak my piece, my feelings, my perspective, and I see the pain it brings to those who matter, to whom I matter, and yet I couldn't possibly. I see the baggage I am, and cry.

I remember those beautiful moments of clarity, in the drive back home after a day of school, that sublime serenity, that freedom of thought, that comforting detatchment from all worries and worldly concerns. It was blissful, and invigorating.

And now those moments are gone.

Now all I find in my solitude are those hateful thoughts, those stressful questions in dire need of answers, that mind-numbing emotion and that cloud of confusion. The rides back home are no longer ones of bliss, of content or joy. They are torture, the moments between actions that force my mind to wander, not aimlessly, but listlessly, uncertain.

Who am I anymore? What am I doing? Why am I such a failure of a human being? Why can’t I understand myself anymore? Where did I go? Will I ever find out?

I bite my fingers, and press down. I don’t go as far as to cut through my skin, but I leave marks. Not deep, and not gruesome, but temporary, like my own mood, like my own emotions, like myself. I look out to that once inspiring view, that which used to excite me and give me reason to smile. But it does not look the same. The grass, the sky, the buildings, they are all dull. They are not inspiring, they are gloomy, because I am gloomy. Nothing can look as optimistic as it once did. The scars may fade, but they are not gone. The scenery passes and I am again submerged in my own selfish self-hatred, my own inadequacies, my own loathing.

Why am I so weak? Why am I such a societal failure? I can’t talk with anyone. Not even my best of friends can see my problems. No, they can, they just have their own, and need me to express need in order to show any compassion. They aren’t selfish, they just don’t know. God, I am an idiot. What can’t I do wrong? I will never escape this vicious cycle. I will never amount to anything. I am worthless. My aspirations will only ever be that, aspirations. I am a burden.

I really don’t deserve to exist. I should honestly kill myself.

I play out the scene in my head. Second period, bell rings. Cue the song, some weird cinematic camera angles for my narcissistic side, I pull out the revolver, tap my best friend on the shoulder and my other good friend as well. They turn to see the gun in my mouth, headed for the brain. A true smile, wide and teary-eyed, happily closed eyes, a soft wave, a muffled, “I love you guys.”, and click. Fade to black.

But I can’t, can I. I would only become a bigger burden if that happened. Funeral costs, raising a kid for all that time jus for a suicide, emotional damage to the people that cared, not to mention ruining some shirts and the back wall. Probably get the carpet stained as well. I can’t. What a pain.

I let go a mental maniacally happy laugh.

Life really isn’t fair, is it?

That flurry of comments and feelings rushes back.

“I can respect feeling lonely, feeling worthless, but I can’t respect excuses.”

“I love your wit, your funny comments, your stature as someone I can talk to about the serious things.” I have none of those qualities. No you don’t.

”I don’t think you appreciate your time alone with yourself.” How can I, feeling as I do, making ‘excuses’, being worthless, hating myself?”

“You need to learn to love yourself. And you need to build self-confidence.” Easier said than done. I am nothing worth loving. And a worthless pile of trash will not feel good about itself.

I shake and shudder and get goosebumps along my back and the nape of my neck. And then I get those painful pinprick feelings that hurt and invite uneasiness and shuffling. In an instant the car is burning, and I am sweating, nervous, anxious, and horribly uncomfortable. I bite my hands with a fervor, and it doesn’t help. I shake more and more. This is torture.

I get now what Hamlet meant when he used the term, ‘mortal coil’.

And suddenly we are home. I am home. I am free.

I exit the car, the feelings go away and I rush, rush to my room. I am free.

And yet, I am caged. I am a slave.

I think to myself of what I can do to occupy my mind. To move away from this pain. And I find it. What a painful quarter of an hour. I busy myself.

And I dread the next day.

I'm not sure why every leaf must die,

Why every beginning must have an end,

Why all things are temporary,

And nothing is permenant.

In this transitory world of ours,

Nothing can persist beyond the advance of time.

Life, as all things, is fickle,

Impermanent.

Truly, naught but change is unending.

We shall never tread an unending line,

For we instead conform to a circle,

This age old loop we hope to transform with enginuity.

But there is beauty in the repetition of alterations.

Patterns are as intricately fascinating as they are swiftly unintersting.

The fleeting nature of life only serves to enhance the import and impact of every moment.

Joy and content made desirable treasures,

Grief and desolation made harbingers of despair and anguish.

Perhaps eternity would not prove to be a monotonous slog,

But I much prefer a world of time.

One with beginning, the occasional middle,

And the definitive end.

The scratch of chalkboards awoke me to a deafening darkness.

My eyes saw nothing as my ears met a cacaphony of terror.

Thousands of whispers and the shrieks and shrills of the damned scoured my psyche.

I could not escape this scandelously tormenting hell, nor could I recall events prior.

In this moment I was consumed, slave to my inner demons.

This cell had no door.