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Come as you are. leave as they wanted.

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Aug. 22nd, 2007 | 04:34 am
mood: coldcold
music: the man who sold the world - nirvana

I can’t find why to exist. Then again. Why not?
Whilst brainless polyps fill our oceans, humans are an existential crisis ready-made; what can our brains achieve!
I know I matter. I’ve cost money to government, and time and effort for my parents. Maybe there are some people who have appreciated me and would be sorry to hear that I had passed away. But fo’real.
How many lives would it touch? And wouldn’t that touching by because I had committed suicide? They would think I died so young with a glorious future. If I had lived a sorry life, no one would have remembered me. Sounds reasonable?
Some might wish I still were among them. But we get attached to stuff too.
They would probably reason why?
Why not?
Life is a decision. Every day is. If life is a question, isn’t death a solution? Those two come in pairs. We die anyway; it’s part of life. So if it’s a question, there are two answers. To live or die.
And this crisis, is upon me just because a, I felt I hadn’t accomplished anything – make it happen – b, I am scared shitless to have a real relationship – it takes time to heal yeah yeah – c, I felt like a loser – every one has bad days – d, I hadn’t felt happy in a while – get professional help… Yeah I’ll talk to a pro, who will stuff me up with pills to numb me. That is not a solution.
I am sick and tired of trying to reason myself. To try to fix me up, to make the decisions, the responsibility of my own life. I don’t feel I deserve to be depressed or broken. I’ve got my things good and I am privileged. I think, therefore I exist. Thinking is just the thing that got me wrong.
Stupid happy.
I find company, I have friends. I am smart, and able to learn things. I experience new things and am interested in new people and phenomenon. But love scares me and I can’t live up to expectations, that sorry enough are all my own. I wish to receive love, when I do, I can’t give any. I fear if I truly show my colours, the other will desist and turn away from me. Not to mention this is a wound never healed, always licked. So the memory remains – something new, something old and in the end something blue. I.
I am sick and tired of having the blame. I am the source of my problems. The fountain of agony. After a goodnight’s sleep, all this will be gone. To start again tomorrow evening.
Pain tells our bodies that something is wrong. Is this pain in my body or soul? My soul is wrong. Look at what I have done.
I want to be beautiful inside out. Beauty is brief. I have my youth and I am alive. But with the condition of the world, I’d be doing a favour if I let go.
And there is exactly no soul in the world – I don’t accept polyps, thank you – to tell me I am wrong. But I have a longer career of being scared of living than dying, so I continue.
How can I claim I am right? Because nothing else matters. We live for ourselves, not for anyone else. Can I really say Kurt was wrong to kill himself? Think what he could have made if he had lived! Destiny is busy; he/she borrows our hands. I mean, look at Courtney now.
Life, not youth, is wasted on us.
I am my worst nightmare: a talent gone wasted. And the face in the mirror doesn’t make me happy.

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