I guess I always put myself in this damned situation, it just comes as a vice to me, something to distract myself from the really horrible things. I think there's definitely some reassuring aspect to fucking my life up that always slams me back into reality. No matter how hard I get thrown against it, it's always better then the fake, saccharine life I've tried to construct for myself. I knew they would have been ok with it, knew they couldn't have cared less. I also knew that they wanted to know, because they worry about my well-being... and yet? But I have that degenerate disease that makes me ruin everything I've ever laid a hand on. Take it how you mus. I'm mainly talking about relationships, projects, clothes, and especially people. Thousands of people have come into my life, people I know I care about, and I've sent them all packing.
I'm not afraid of them, it's not that at all. Fuck, I wish it were something as simple and mundane as just fearing them. But it's not, it never fucking is. It's because I don't want to be loved, loved by anyone. I haven't led a horrible life where everyone I've ever loved has failed me. Contrary to that actually, everyone I've ever loved, that wasn't old enough to go with age, is still around, and they all still love me. Every. Single. Last. One. Of. Them. And I keep fucking it up!
It may be that I don't know how to cope in the real world, that every good idea I've thought I has come from my subconcious, a book, or a song that caught my attention. For those of you who know what I listen to, think about it, I've been living my life on Animal Collective and Frightened Rabbit albums. There's a plead for help embedded in the text somewhere in there.
Also, I hate myself for casting those people aside. I've only just relaized that I'm one of those people who's affection grows substantially greater over time, and that I may have let them chip a place in my heart, their very own place that keeps growing enormously. And it hurts, god it hurts more than anything. The revolting, retching, gross feeling every time I think about what I've done, the people I've hurt, and how little I cared about it is heartbreaking even for me. But I think what hurts the most, is that I've been using it as an escape. I wanted to douse the feelings that were building up and taking extreme hold of my life, so I lied to my parents? About something so minescule too! My gratitude towards their verdict is great, it's hard to explain. But I think they understood that I had just met a new person, one that I care about, and that we weren't doing anything wrong at all, except the fact that I had lied about who I was with to gain more time.
I'm pressing on though, attempting to fix things, which proabably means that I'll just end up falling on my face again, but who cares anymore? I can't honestly say I have a bone in my body that wants to feel bad. I screwed up on my parents account, but it was probably the best thing I ever did with it. I met a great person and did more talking than I've ever had the strength to in the past. I think it was because he was so comforting. Everything about that boy is welcoming, and it made me feel at home. Like instead of feeling that I was walking on coals, or that it was awkward to being having a personal conversation, it felt like I was sun bathing, or sitting laying in a hammock... things that I consider relaxing and nice. Yeah, so Dylan, if you ever read this, you're a great guy despite my lack of analitical skills.
No comments:
Post a Comment