This is really just my thoughts. If you wanna go all fan-fictionesque, I kind of did mean one of the MCR members to be writing this. Some parts should give that away. Any guesses?
I don’t want to go into a whole philosophical rant of complicated words and ingenious insights. Mostly because I don’t have anything to say. But sometimes I just want to cry, you know? Because…well, I thought for a while but I couldn’t think of a reason why. I just see something sad, that might not even be classified as sad, and the tears just come. Sometimes, it even happens when I’m sitting on my bed playing my guitar: out of the blue! And it doesn’t stop for a while because my tear ducts have no control over what’s happening. All it is is a complete body breakdown. It kind of hurt the very first time I cried like that. There was an awful pang, but not the kind you’d feel if you got hit on the head with a porcelain china dish. It was—you shoulda guessed it—internal. Otherwise, I wouldn’t write about it. The pain hit right around my heart area, where that icky-looking muscle pulsates and keeps me more or less alive. At first, I sobbed inward and I thought I might have been, well, dying. I kind of hoped I was. I actually prayed to my non-existent God, begging him to just kill me off because fuck… that would’ve meant getting away from this suffocating room; what I’m supposed to call my home. I soon figured out, though, that the little throb I felt in my chest was not my heart stopping. It was more of a crack. Maybe, in actuality, it was just a hairline crack on the surface of something huge, but it felt like a gaping hole in my chest. As cliché as it sounds, my heart was breaking. Only, it didn’t really have any problems to deal with; it didn’t need to break. I kind of thought this was strange, but maybe it just had too much work to do and it ripped a little when it couldn’t take any more.
To be honest, that was just my theory. Or again, my masochistic wish. I mean how cool would it to have a broken heart? Pretty sick.
The most recent time it happened—the irrational crying, I mean—I tried to write a song about it. Haha. Ha. It was nothing but bad poetry and lyrics that would put Hannah Montana fans to sleep. The point I’m trying to make is that it didn’t hurt as much as the first time. I didn’t notice the traumatizing ache reducing after each time I cried until it just went poof! My heart feels too whole. Now, it’s just salty water running out of my eyes. For what? I never knew. But now, I don’t even feel bad about it. And damn, that makes me upset.
I try so hard. There couldn’t be a person on Earth who cares as much as I do about emotions. I have to feel something deep or I just can’t stand to stay in my body. I want to carve out my soul and let my body wither while I find a new one to occupy. But I guess that wouldn’t really help since my soul probably is the part of me which causes all this… apathy. I hate indifference. So why can’t I identify anything else in that putrid, wrinkly brain of mine? What do I need to do in order to be…someone else? Do I need to like, stab myself? Because if it worked, I would do it. Well, no, that’s a lie. I’m a fucking liar. But hey, if you’re human, that’s basically a job requirement. I don’t like physical pain. I would never in a million years hurt myself like that. Instead, I invest my time reading about or listening to people who have that special insightfulness—a permanent “sixth sense”, if you will. I purposely hang myself around people with such great talents, who just outshine me. I observe their every move; try to see what makes them so…so…deep. Everyone I dare to call “friend” has some unique, special, amazing quality. It was my hope that some of their brilliance would rub off on me.
Key word: was.
I don’t feel the need to do that anymore. I keep questioning myself; what was the point? Because all the while, I knew that this intuition that I wanted to have wasn’t something I could grab from thin air; it wasn’t something that blew like a breeze from people’s faces and crashed into mine.
All I wanna do now, is close the blinds…lock the door…lay in bed with a gun cocked and ready to go. Aimed for my heart because that’s where the trouble started in the first place. Of course, I wouldn’t do this. I couldn’t. I’m busy slaving away at things others force me to do. Things I let others force me to do because I can’t break the “flow”. I depend on the world to tell me what to do so I can just get everything over with. In every single way, life is insignificant and unimportant. I don’t give a flying fuck which intellectual, optimistic moron wants to argue with me. I won’t fight back. I just don’t care anymore. And they’d probably win anyway. I’m just a wannabe-insightful little “emo” kid. And maybe that’s a bad thing but that’s okay.
What is this whole drabble about? It’s about…me. Just something I thought I’d share. Why would I even write up my deepest darkest secrets? Well, because you never know. I might be dead tomorrow because of some freak accident. I’d hate for all this to go unread and unnoticed. And I guess this is also some sort of goodbye. I never mentioned a word about that throughout my ramble, but that’s what it is…or it’s me trying to sound all wise and shit. Either way, tomorrow is gonna come eventually, despite my wish to end time. I’ve learned finally that it doesn’t matter what you want. Cause even if you get it, you’re gonna lose it again eventually.