There are nights I cannot sleep, and wonder why my mind bombards me with memories I want forgotten. Echoes of times and moments I wish had never been, voices I want muted and emotional scars that still burn like corosive acid. I become overwhelmed with sensations of pure and unfiltered rage, anger so great I feel I could be lifted off the ground by it. Sorrow eats at the back of mind, regrets of those I left behind, obligations never met, promises unkept, dreams shattered and hopes dashed.
Nights of introspection like this scare me, remind me that I still hurt. Once there was a time I wanted to feel something, when I would do pain to myself to feel, yet now I want that numbness back. I know the words I write now are but castings into the ether, feelings which I want to express for fear of being consumed. Within an hour, I know, the emotions will quiet and I will remain stoic as before, yet now I feel so weak. So weak and sore.
They say the greatest writers in history were people who suffered much in life, who carried demons throughout their lives which never left them. H.P. Lovecraft was a man who suffered since his youth, deprived of a father, a mother commited to a mental hospital, doting alcoholic aunts who filled his mind with alienating bigotries.Tolkien was a man haunted by the ravishes of war, the nightmares of not only losing friends and family but of also returning to his home to find it industrialized and bereft of the peace he left behind. Thompson was a man who indulged deeply in narcotics and alcohol which altered his perception of a reality he felt was fucked beyond repair and was the only man with the balls to tell the world what it didn't want to hear.
I look back on these men and wonder if I will ever be among them in their ranks as a worthy author. Time and again I face the opportunity and become fearful of failure and rejection, that for all my effort and work my only reward is an obscure and quiet death? Why are we told that dreams are so precious when, in today's society, they only account for less than nothing. Dreamers wither and die while reality trambles their corpses with fervency to ensure others do not make the same mistake.
Some days I want to live in a perfect world meant for me, where I feel as if life had a purpose for my birth and that happiness will come. This melencholy I feel is temporary, yet right now, this moment as I type away to whomever feels the pity to read, it pains me so deep. It isn't easy to get up and keep being kicked back down, as if life was trying to get across thats where I belong. I'm tired of seeing my hopes and dreams and aspirations go to the side because the world sees them as archaic and dated.
Let this venting of mine alievate this pain I feel right now. How I wish I could turn all of this sorrow and hate and loathing into something cohesive and real, manifest it into some kind of thing that could change my life...
I should stop now. It's hard to read the screen at this point and I know I'm ranting about whatever freely wanders into my mind.