Thursday, February 2, 2012

There is a certain aspect of my feelings that I don’t let into my social brain anymore.  Maybe I’m too introspective, or too antisocial to the point where it has changed my deepest behaviors.  I always keep my motive to myself, in a sense.  I never give those sweeping pinpoints of emotional communication like I used to.  So, I will write it here, to myself.

Nothing has made me happier this last month than hearing her voice on the phone.  It’s been years… but as soon as I heard it, I remembered how it felt back then.  And I remembered how I trusted that voice.  I have become such an emotional shut-in that I have forced myself to forget about my own desires in that sense.  Probably because I just can’t deal with the lows anymore, so I avoid them entirely.

I know that if I do say what I think and feel, it will only start the cogs moving slowly towards destruction.  Even though I tell myself that I’m different, now… somehow I still know that it will happen.  It’s scary to always think that for your entire life.

But, even if that –did- happen, would it still be worth it?  Even if it was only for some temporal relief?  Isn’t that why I was addicted to things for so many years?  Because I enjoyed the present, I didn’t think about the future or past; just the present.  Maybe I was just numbing myself to what was around my life in that sense.

But just to hear that familiar voice, and to remember how it felt back then… makes me want to try to get it back, even if I feel like I never really can.  I’m a different person, now:  Even more wrecked, more aimless, more destructive because I have that death inside of me and always will.

It scares me, because I know I will feel that way towards anyone and anything I want… but shouldn’t I still want it?  Other people with destructive personalities don’t wall themselves off from everything because they think they will destroy it; they want it, and then destroy it, and then want again.  At least, most people do.  Maybe we’re both different in that way.

I don’t even know why I sweat it so much, because it’s hundreds of miles of nothing, between two voices.  Just thinking of that makes me sad to know it’s true.

Maybe I’m just trying in vain to latch onto something because I have nothing.  Maybe I’m nostalgic because I haven’t had anything to be nostalgic about.  Maybe I think I’ve changed somewhat simply because I can’t stand to be the same person anymore.  Maybe I’m just alone and starving to death.  But shouldn’t I still want it?

I have the feeling she would think these same things… and that makes it all the harder to avoid.  And even though I am just talking to myself, I still want her to read it, just so she doesn’t think I am unaware.  Because I always sound unaware, uninterested in some small way, because I can’t stand to face what is really inside me.  The aloneness; the fear.

And even if it is just hearing that voice, I feel like I’m not so alone.

Thinking about the rotting carcass that is my brain right now, I don’t even think I could offer anything.  I always feel blank, mentally bloated.  Like everything I say sometimes is just noise trying to escape from a storm.  I can hope that this feeling goes away as I return to myself… but that was always a part of me.  The noise.  The storm.

I just hate feeling so goddamned nervous all the time, with everyone and everything.  Maybe this will quell some of that.  Or maybe I’ll just look like a complete fool for being so strangely shy.  I never used to be shy, when it came to my feelings in that way.  I don’t really know why I am, now.  It probably has to do with how thoroughly I’ve destroyed my sense of self for the last ten years.  It’s only gotten worse.  I can feel that nervousness infecting every action I take, and it makes me think that I haven’t found a job yet because of it.  I wasted too much money on stupid shit because of it.  I called someone I loved years ago because of it.  I am restrained and diluted because of it.  Something about putting myself truly out there just scares the hell out of me.

At least it feels somewhat normal to write as my old, morose, self-loathing, blackened self.

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