Sad. So sad. Is life.

Where is the truth behind it all?

I just want to disappear. Wretched is the world. Wretched is me. A world where it exists but not to exist. Where delirium is clarity. Where life is a disparity. It is a sick joke. Lifeless. Once more, I enter. Lost. Wondering. So lost, am I? The life that I lead. The life that once was. Where is the connection between that which and that which is not? It was about this time when the fault escaped. It was about this time when all that was became all that was not. It was the life that I had led so long ago. How much I wish to return to that life, when it was not sadness that prevailed. When I did not hurt others. When I did not hurt myself.

Such is the life. The happiness. The sadness. The windows never stood so bare. In front of me. I wish to die. I see the reflection. I wish to die. My reflection. A sight of sorrow. A ghostly past. Future. Never once there stood the image of that which I could not be. It is the image. It is the mirage. Where happiness once stood. Dead. In front of me. Dead. In front of me. Dead. I wish to die. The happiness. The sadness. The future. What future? The past. The past. The past. How I wish I could return to the past. The past is a time of absence. Of sadness. It was a time that was. I miss the time that was. When happiness did not exist in the past tense. Or, at least, what I thought to be happiness. I never knew so much. I never knew I would know so much. I wish I could stop knowing.

The darkness. I love the darkness. When did I start to love the darkness. I wish I could stop loving the darkness. But the darkness me. How could not love something that is me. How could I love something that is me? Contradiction. The hurt. I hurt. So often, I feel as if the sadness I experience is the result of the hurt that I had inflicted on others. But, then I reflect on the nature of hurting others, and I wonder what had been the cause it all. Do I hurt others because I experience sadness, or do I experience sadness because I hurt others. Even so, which came first? Did the sadness or the retribution come first? I wonder. I will never know. I suspect it is one of those mysteries in the universe that will never be answered. That is the way. That is the way.

I’m sorry, really. To the universe. I’m sorry for existing.

Lacrymosa. The rose. I miss the rose. I pity all those who come in contact with me. You thought that I was a band-aid, but all I do is leave scars. You thought that because I was willing to listen to you that I could solve your problems. But, you’re wrong. I am not the solution. I am the problem.

I try to be honest. I tell people that I will hurt them when I come into contact with them. Some listen, as they should. But then, some don’t. They should, but they don’t. So often I yearn for someone to love me, but then, sometimes, I would think about what that would mean. It is impossible for someone to love me. But, even if it were possible, I pity the fool who would want to. I really do. I want to feel loved. By others. So little, however, do I consider its implications. Because, to me, it is quite simple, the act of loving me is a hurtful act. Cuts turn into scars. Tears turn into art. That is the type of person I am. I am someone who wants to be loved. I am someone who hurts others. There is so little time in my life when I would be genuinely concerned for the hurtful actions I have done. When indifference did not prevail.

Life is so sad. So sad is life.

Quiet. I miss the quiet. The world may shatter itself, but I prevail. Just me, and my sadness. The shattering. I miss the soft strum of a guitar that plays when the end is near. I miss the end. I miss the beginning. How long ago? I was so different. Did I recognize myself? Who am I? I have so little idea anymore. This concept of identity… why would I even bother? The bass is near. Bump. Boom. Bump. Softly. In the darkness. The strumming continues. The only certainty I have is the construction of myself relative to the ends that I have experienced. Or, is that necessary at all? Is the self only constructed relative to the conclusion? Because, if we find ourselves in the process, then how can we contextualize the process until the process has reached its end? The end. The end. The end. The process that leads to the end. The act of contextualizing can only exist with context. The end.

I yearn. It is so simple, yet so far away. So far away. I miss it. The sound. The smoothness. I haven’t felt the smoothness for so long. The world is jagged. My hands are jagged. Sometimes, I feel like the act of touching others always leads to pain. My jagged hands in a jagged world. The softness of others. How much do I want to be a part of that. But, I have not been chosen to be a part of that. My jagged hands. I can only hurt those around me. I want to touch others, but the only way to touch others is to hurt others. But, I still want to touch others, regardless, whether that would hurt others or not. Contact. those poor souls who come in contact with me. Sad. When they sought salvation, all I can offer is damnation. The world. Hateful. Is the world.

Until we die. Die, die, die! I laugh. I am in a dream, aren’t I? I wish. This has always been a dream. I don’t hurt others. Others do not hurt me. Die, die, die! I want ot wake up. How do I wake up? It was in inception, wasn’t it? How do you wake up from a dream? The kick. Someone kick me please. It looks like no one is coming to kick me. So, it would seem that I am going to continue existing in this dream world for some time. I wish I wouldn’t exist in this dream world. I don’t want to live in this dream world. I am so sad. I don’t want to be in this sad dream world. The world. Is it sad? Is it just my dream? I don’t want to be in this world. Please wake me up. Please wake me up. I don’t want to be in this world. Please. Wake. Me. Up.

How is it that we convince ourselves that we aren’t in a dream world. What did Leonardo DiCaprio do in Inception? He died, didn’t he? He and his wife. They died together to challenge the world that they were in. They were convinced that they were not in a world that was real. They put their heads on a set of railroad tracks and let a train run over them. Then, they woke up. In the real world. I also want to wake up in the real world. This is not the real world. This is not real. I am not real. this world cannot be real. Wake me up. I have experienced something real, and I am not experiencing something real right. Wake me up. this world cannot be real. I am convinced that this world is not real. I don’t want this world to be real. I don’t. I wish that I could wake up. In another world.

The world and I. ‘Til death due us part.