I don't want to kill myself

I just want to get out of here. Away from everyone. Never have to see my family or the people that hate me again, ever. I could go to college, studying a subject I love. Get a job I love. Live by myself, armed and dangerous, but alone. I want to get out so badly, sometimes I feel like I'd rather kill myself than wait it out.


But I don't want to die here.
I really don't.

I have a lot to say

I have a lot of nothing to say.

Jumper

I think that would be the prettiest thing in the whole world. Standing up on a building, actually knowing for a fact you were going to jump. Appreciating every little car, every blade of grass, every breath of air -- because you know it will be the last you experience. You appreciate everything more when you're hanging off the top of a building, I think, because it's like being reborn. You can again understand how when everything is new or final it seems much greater, because on sight it is perfectly created, it is so interesting how everything functions. Only when we are forced to endure year after year of problems, consequences, and pain do we lose sight of how fascinating everything is. Not fascinating enough to extract us from our ledges, but fascinating enough to enjoy a last breath.

032408

I'm so tired of this.



I keep coming here.

Brass Band

TYBE/TYBB were excellent. Both did really, really well. I enjoyed the concert and getting to see everyone perform, even though COLLEEN QUIT. I brought her to come see it at least.

Nothing really to say other than it was fantastic,
and it was good to get out of my damn house for a few hours.

Psychological realization pt. I

By calling you a monster, I make you unreal. It is not reasonable to expect me to defend myself against someone that is unreal. By making you a monster, it isn't my fault. And though by making you a man it becomes my fault, it means you can be be destroyed. It means you can be forgotten.

And that is beautiful.

One level below hell

I am so tired of people. Life. Not belonging.
Maybe fitting in no place is acceptable, but when you don't even fit in with your family, when you can't talk without being yelled at or hit, when you have nowhere you can find comfort and solace, you are truly lost. I have spent many hours standing on the edges of roofs or looking out of windows, wishing I could jump. Not because I want to die, but because I think maybe I'll find what I've been looking for. I have no way out. I do not know what will happen to me as the years progress; I do not care.

I do not want to be here. The world is miserable. Even something as small as worms drowning in puddles after a storm can be turned into devastating symbolism, can raise horrifying questions. Will they too search for survivors? Greive? Dispose of the carnage? Feel the horror and shock of knowing that a third of their population has been wiped out in a single night?

These questions cannot be answered in books, but in dreams. The nightmares I endure regularly explain things such as this, though the answers are not ones I want to hear. Misery is endless and oppressive. Its' black fingertips stretch beyond the human race (which surely is deserving of such pain) and grab hold of the innocent, the perfect. Even something so small as a population of worms must suffer, must feel pain. Here in a world where nothing is untouchable by hatred, where nothing is devoid of sorrow, I cannot exist.