Crazies

You know those days when you wish a truck would run over you? Those days when, if something could take you in an instant, you’d take the option rather than living out the day. We all have them, and if you say you don’t, you’re probably lying.

Failure is a given in life. It’s going to happen. Well, if you’re anything like me, you fail a lot. Possibly so much that it affects your state of living. It affects those around you. Your family, friends, colleagues, acquaintances, even the random person who decides to give you a smile while walking down the street, with which you respond with a frown and everted eyes. You don’t want to be this way, you just are. Some say it’s chemicals in the brain. Some say it’s personal demons Satan himself has given to you. Some say it’s a thorn in the side from God to keep you in check.

But what do you say? Is it the way you were treated as a child? Is it the small bit of abuse you got from bullies in elementary school? Is it that itching you feel when something small bothers you?  You know the one where you don’t want to mention it because you know they’ll call you stupid.

The question always comes up. Why am I like this? This thing inside me that makes me miss class. It makes me want to end it all. It makes me want to give up. Why? Why is this parasite inside me? It just doesn’t make sense.

Society never looked after us. Society never cared, quite frankly. They locked us up in asylums and told us we were crazy. Kept us out of the minds of the “regular” folk, who need not bother themselves over “crazies” like us. But times have changed. Yes times have changed, and we’re out and about. We live lives that the normal people say is easy. But guess what. Society didn’t evolve with us. Society never took into account me. The one whose mind isn’t quite intact, but can still function.

On the outside, we look fine. Our physical appearance is perfect. “Why weren’t you at class/work? You look fine,” they say. They never think, and never will know what goes on the inside. Our minds are fragile, but they don’t know. And we can’t tell them! Because they’ll never know. Even if they’ve gone through hell themselves, they will not listen.

Why? Why won’t they listen? Because society has told them that we’re all the same. We all MUST fit these standards, and if we don’t we’ll be worthless.

I don’t know what to do.

And neither do you.

I feel alone but I know you exist.

Those like me.

Help.

Mr. Bag of Bones

What have I become?

I used to be someone they could trust, someone they could look up to. Now look at me. Just a shell of a man who barely has his mind intact. I used to be something so much more than a fleshy bag of bones, sitting in a dark, dank corner in a prison cell.

Oh how the days passed. My name, I do not remember. My life before is likened to a good dream that you would be rudely awoken from, never to recall. By now, I can’t even remember if the life that I once possessed was real or just another fictitious thought made by my lonely, crumbling mind.

Honestly, I don’t even remember the reason they locked me up in this hell to begin with. Was I a thief? A murderer? A rapist? How much of a monster am I?

A slow gurgling in my stomach reminds me that I haven’t gotten food delivered from the small slot in my door for the past few days. Or minutes. Maybe it has just been a few seconds? Time does not exist to me anymore. Not that I’m complaining. I wouldn’t mind if they left me here to die anyways. Or maybe I would? I don’t know how it feels to die of starvation. Is it worse than insanity? I don’t know. I honestly don’t care anymore.

The darkness of my cell is overwhelming everyday (or night for all I know, there are no windows in my little hell), but today an even greater darkness sits on my eyes. As if the Grim Reaper himself is covering my eyes, inadvertently telling me that even the usual darkness is too bright for these tired, old windows to the soul.

I’m not sure how much longer I can live without some food. It’s as if I can feel my blood begin to boil and my bones begin to break. Or something.

I’m honestly not sure anymore

I honestly don’t know.

This. This darkness. It is even brighter than light. Is this the relief waiting for me? Pitch black. This. This darkness, is relief.

Blank Canvas

So here’s to this blank canvas. Come here daily to see if I make a masterpiece, or a completely dreadful mistake.

This is something completely new for me, blogging. I never thought I’d be in front of a computer at 1 in the morning, tapping on my computer just for the heck of it, yet here I am.

I’ve always been a writer. Whether it’s poetry, lyrics for a song, or a short story, I find myself doing it constantly. While artists doodle when they’re bored in class, I write. I guess it’s just a way I relieve stress or just pass the time.

Anyways, I decided to start a little blog. Just some little nook on the expanse of the internet to write to my hearts content. Whether anybody reads this isn’t much of my concern, but if you’re here reading this, thanks. It means a lot to a lonely college kid such as myself.

So here’s to this blank canvas. Come here daily to see if I make a masterpiece, or a completely dreadful mistake. Nonetheless, this is something I’m looking forward to.

Thanks,

Jazz