The Return

Nothing I love or know better than madness. Everything good in me bound into the monster as well. In chaos it comes out. A healthy normal life is always a lie for people like us. You cannot run or hide. You simply lie until you ruin your life with illusions, and then the truth of your own warped mind is too heavy to bear.

My old friend suicide returns, remaining tangential in the mind, the soul. The addictive affection of annihilation. I am a tormenter best. I learned from the best. And who can take my lineage, my crown from me.

Only in pain I make art and create. Only in the biggest sufferings. There is no other way. You make art or you have peace. Maybe you make art to have peace. Because the non-art peace is just a lie. I am tired of being tame. And no one wanting me. I don’t want me anymore. I never have.

I want the crystallized version of me. The reduced, distilled, pure, and then hardened unbreakable version of me. Maybe this is what life is giving me. This is the process I want. For the result I want. A purer cleaner understanding of my most human self.

I do not exist without the constant call for destruction. This is my nature. I must channel it correctly. I want to be no monster. I want a human life. Sometimes happiness. I am afraid of myself, more than any fist or weapon. I fear my will. My loneliness. And my passion for purity of experience.

I am suffering again. I am writing again.

About Undecided Pseudonym

A woman who remembers enjoying writing.
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