... I'm going to rage here. I'm going to explicitly describe every one of the hundreds of confused, pandemic, fucked up emotions I feel right now, if an emotion can be described as something that tears you into pieces so rapidly before evanescing into a trillion fragments of pain. Then I'm going to see if that's helped me release any of this, because pencil and paper are beyond helping me now. If that isn't enough description, then imagine the sun, that ball of white burning light, turning black, and releasing fire instead of warmth, and burning everything it touches, and sees, and talks to. Then imagine the sun locked inside a chamber of infinite capacity, leaving it to burn and burn yet leaving nothing burnt. And then fill the mind of that ball of black hate with more self loathing, and tear it apart with the rage that it made itself. And on and on and on, entering a chain of anger and hate and pain and loathing, and this circling around inside a certain someone's head, as he contemplates how much he hates himself, and everything around him, and just wants to destroy. I want to take a <edit moderator total eclipse triggering>, if only to make a gap for the hate to leave, let it all escape. But I can't. I fucking can't. Am I a coward? To afraid to try a third time, to really really end it, with no one to stop me now? I don't know. Maybe I am. A friendless walking talking corpse, a bipolar mess, a heap of confusion and pain, wishing, begging, pleading for an escape, an exit, an end. I have nothing to live for, no more family to cut ties with, no more friends to stab in the back. More like friends to be stabbed in the back, since I was the one on the receiving end of the bastard blade. Always, always the one to be hated, always the outsider, the odd one out, the stranger, the friendless one, the failure, the waste of space, the twoface, the faker. Every one of those things, a schizophrenic bipolar mess too afraid of his own feelings to even walk outside, too afraid to go back downstairs for a bottle of water because he'll scream at his own family, too self-destructive to want to care, too much of a prick to even spell one word wrong, too much too much too much. And that's not even the tip, not even the fang of this embattled mass that is my rage. Not even the tip of this fucking never ending sea of rage, not even anything. It's a frigging anti sun, a ball of black, volcanic and violent. I want to< edit mod total eclipse triggering> run, scream, jump, ANYTHING, Just to end it, just for an escape, just to calm down, just to stop typing. Typing typing typing typing, why the fuck am I still typing? No one can change this, no one would care. It's not a plea for help, it's an acceptance of absence, the absolute certainty that I have not a friend, not an enemy, not an anything. A beggar would spit at me, I would spit at my own reflection, if only to further tarnish this false hope. Hope, there's an interesting word. False as what it proclaims, a ball of it exists, somewhere in the mass of hate, that a shoulder to cry on would appear from anywhere, proof that there was someone left who cared about me, me who is me, not their son, not their family, not their classmate, not anything, but the individual, sitting here, wishing for an escape. Someone who'd look past the strangeness, the absurdity of what I am, and who I've become, and what I'm becoming, at really care, look me in the eye, and see the hope, not the hate. Someone without fear, prejudice, hate, any of those things, someone to tell me I'm still here. Thus the schizophrenic nature of my predicament, if that's what I can call it, I fear I'm switching between psychs now. Not just violent mood swings, but the actual creation of another me, the one who smiles in class, and laughs at jokes, and pays attention, and plays video games, and eats food, and pretends and pretends and pretends, the one who society will accept, the one who just doesn't care enough to value his own hate. And then there's really me, the one you'd see if only you could care, the one who's eyes you'd really see if you looked for more then a glance, the one who needs someone besides himself. The one who so lacks anything he tries to create another of himself so that his psyche doesn't devour itself in it's infinite prison of loneliness and longing, the one who can't give anything anymore, the one who's given up. Sure, I'll struggle. I'll claw my way through this year, somehow pass my exams. Maybe realise my dream of joining the air force. But what then? Life doesn't exist in the doing, it exists in the being, of existing in a plane that you, and only you, can accept. No one else can accept me, I can't accept me, I want to erase me. That feeling is one that will never go away, that bubbles up when I pause to breath, that breaks through when I try to sleep. It gives me nightmares, dreams that are half forgotten but never non existent. I'm not sure what is real and what is not, maybe this is really a dream too. But it's too vivid, too real to be so. I'm not falling through walls, floating in mid air, seeing strange reflections off opaque surfaces. I see a computer screen, a sad, sad escape, a place promising and delivering a liberty, a place that takes me away. It tries to help me too, the same with my imagination, a knight of essence that battles to hold back the torrent. But he's alone, he never had comrades and has none now, nor a steed, nor anything. He has a will, a certainty that he will prevail, because if he loses, his state of existence dies with him. But he's already lost, he doesn't see the dark already behind him, above him, below him. It consumes him, yet he fights on? Why? Why doesn't he fall? That's the only thing holding me together, that knight programmed into my state of being, a human, an angel, it matters not, just that there's something that keeps me from jumping. He failed once, when another came to save me instead. But that person is far out of reach, a person who doesn't even know of my hate, a person who I cut off over foolishness. The one person who could slap some sense into this empty psyche isn't here, and the knight is dead. Is dead. I've tried to kill myself, twice now. Once another saved me, once my own cowardice. But neither are here now, just an empty husk that tries to convey that which cannot be conveyed into words. It is so so very cold, so so very bleak. What does it matter, a roof and a bed, a plate and a drink, if the body to live off them is already dead? What does it matter, 5 more minutes or 90 more years? What can I possibly find to change that? No person would care, no one has nor will, and that's a fact, not a cry for help. There is NOTHING left, NOTHING. The knight is DEAD. WHAT IS LEFT? WHAT?