I failed again at getting something in by Sunday but now understand that a letter was coming through. Below is one of the last things I wrote almost twenty years ago. I held it back. If you know you know. Some drop their hints some don’t. Truth be told we are nearing the end. I hope you all good, happy and healthy lives. Thanks to the ones who helped with this one. I hate/love you.
I have lived my life ignoring others in a space I love to hate and one that has proven to hate loving me. Something that underlines all these layers that keep piling up over all my abuse, hurt and pain. The unseen is the reason I commit the so called sin I plan. This not so silent killer is aided my many voices and split down a middle of those who mind their own business and those that seek drama whether to destroy or appear helpful as angels. Mediums bent on bringing out the crys of the suicidal when in truth it is thier intrusion into private mental space that causes the intent to begin. Forced to continue being placed in these spaces because it’s where they think I want to fit in. As if I wanted to fit in any where. Together yet apart as dare I say friends and not mere carriers of work slipping me my notes as if we are at some mediphoric table. One perhaps low to the floor while Indian style set knees knock against the frame of a worn out wooden table. Old and weathered through time. The pictures they lay out for me as my now editors since tables turned seek to tell me stories but instead runs the lines as if to say we can wait till another day. There will be another day?…Will there? I sometimes wonder as my life and plans get lost in this collage of my life hidden in the blue and red hueing purple sky filled with teddy bears, pirate ships and dippers. Golden peaks rising with my fears of a lost anology among the many conversations and practiced speeches. Perhaps a art museum date or concert confusion. Was it the stage or the middle of the floor…definitely not the VIP section or really in public at all I’m sure. The sex, drugs and achohol all symbolism for the code of rolling emotions that came crashing through once this 20/20 vision came splashing through a dam of years held back due to the divination. Agruements and cover ups. Realizing the dream would never take fruition seeking another road to set my skills into motion. Every road lead me away from the life they had planned. So no road in the end was the intention.(slide that list of math symbols to me, shh keep it secret and safe) Mediocre life of quite and pretend solitude as covert narcissists ate up my time and destroying the life intended to be mine and only mine. All that money on their mind knowing I would walk away never to return and leave them alone with what they claimed was suffocation. A life time of continuing to remind others of the time wasted and the lack of respect and the to little to late care placed on the table from selfishness that said I only like you because you said you would compromise all your time for me. The constant admission that I am the problem just as many others and fitting that out across a stretch of internet conversations that will arguably be debated as to being used or to be used. Does it matter? The statements and decisions made as I interjected a few notes some personal some not. One thing I know is the connecting of dots and the problem solving I have come accustomed to that the origin seems to be ignored. The instinct and practiced critical thought processes running deep as I make my stand and leave. The judgemental stares as I follow the path through what seems like just another kind of hell trying to escape the upper side of it that has all the treats you might wish to eat. That realization all the treats aren’t real and the farther the walk the more disillusioned you become as your so called life doesn’t seem real. All the tragic endings and beautiful transformations made to save the innocence of children buying them a little more time before reality sets it. I want the children out of hell and in heaven. The ones with happy, healthy, well rounded utopian parents who have never had a broken relationship due to hurtful and harmful situations. For with them we would duplicate that in the same happy, healthy and well rounded utopian people in a rainbow colored world. The air seems thick with contextual emotions of reeling thought patterns motivated by intoxication but in reality it’s just another letter to my self that I put back that took time to lay out and plan. Having its own notes tied in. Now it’s just playing back as my time crunch screams you have little time for sleep and no time for hidden thoughts and cascading notes to write and throw to oceans and retrieve bottles of the same. No dancing, no parties, no more the life of the female Forest role even though the story goes you are the girl barely stepping back off the edge to run from the room. Note after note amongst so many sheets and yet all you were intended to be was just another lieing, crazy and lost little girl. They tried to stop me, he was about a week to late, figured it out when the comma took place. Instructions to write and my reply I already have and you decided to do it again trying to prove something I’m still not sure what. But again I stopped because of the ideas of others. As if I didn’t recognize my own face in the mirror. As if I hadn’t lived my own life. As if I couldn’t take the time to construct my own words. I touched it. I did. I regret and I don’t. As always both. On one side I am as purified as white gold on the other as dark as the most smoldering hot metal. Yet seeing nothing but diamonds in the sky and understanding this life was the only one I’d have, this life I lived in my mind. Divination by your hand stole it. Science by its own system saved me as voices reached out. The Supernatural shakes its head and I still have yet to figure what exactly her whisper said. The dark room and that screen was the time I knew my life…life would never reach past it for I am nothing but “a full blown loon” just as one says quietly another not knowing stakes the claim they make me as crazy as the moon. I laugh for I was born into what you call crazy I have been digging a way out but the longer I surveyed the area the more I realized it seems I’m camouflaged and unseen. With a Boo and a silent weapon just waiting for trip five and having that bang ending bullet to the brain. I don’t care what you believe I was there and felt every touch you left on me till baracaded doors were my only escape and you still found a way to take even my own work away. Inscribed and inbeded in time you just can’t except it I have found a way every time and I don’t care who knows it. Personal journals taken away and made a public display. Forced to put it out the for others to poke fun and humiliate. The nightmare that isn’t a nightmare but very real. “Oh the crys of the over dramatic, that is what they will say once I get her moved away.” Just another enemy in my way.
theartoflife.space 