#writing streamofcounciousness feedback selfhelp

[unicorns-and-blunts-blog]

Who am i? Most days it feels like im just an alien smoking a cigarette. Art is the only salvation from the horror of existence we have so why does this cruel world smolder in the boredom of black and white? We are all the creators of our own catastrophe, so why did it burn so badly as I watched it all fall apart? I am a liar. I hate to admit it. I am not the same person I have always been. The older I grow the bigger the hole in my chest grows. Its broken me thousands of times. I cant tell if im pulling myself back together or just slowly drifting further apart. Pain has always been a good friend of mine. Even on my best days she finds a way to slowly set her roots back into my heart. And then the sadness lasts for days and days only ending after I reach my hand in through my chest and grab the weed by the roots. They always asked me why I hurt myself. Why I ripped myself apart so horridly. They looked down on me with calloused eyes and judgmental frowns as I hid myself in the darkest corner avoiding the hate they reined on my ravaged skin. I hated them. But I envied them. They where lucky. They had never been so desperate to feel that they felt the need to tare apart their skin. As the emptiness grew the horror of thinking started to rot my brain. I couldn’t handle the stench after a while. So I started self medicating the depression and the pain and the loneliness away. Hit after hit after hit until I couldn’t move and my brain was content with knowing its ok not to think. It was just like a dream. Floating in a hideous world made beautiful by the feeling of the wind on my skin with just one simple thing. Just one more hit and that should be enough to make it through the day. But why does it matter? A weed is only a flower in the end. Am I really alive? Ive been in love. Such a hideous thing to ever fall into. Ive learned never to depend on anyone to much in this world. Even your loyal shadow leaves you when it grows dark. He dosent know how many times I wish I could hold him. Neither would he care. But I still go crawling back in hopes things will be different in a new go round. He thinks hes the only one, but everyone has scars. We just don’t all choose to wear them on the outside. And every night I lay awake and wonder if he will remember, cause I know I wont ever forget. I am no ones friend. I am just someone who remembers how to feel. Im not afraid to die. Just a little scared of what comes after. If I knew what lay beyond id probably be their by now. But something about the thought of living where nothing lives at all terrifies me. Im really hoping no one finds me here. What you must understand is that I am a deeply unhappy person.I cant shake this feeling ill never do anything right. My thoughts have already destroyed me more than blades ever could. I am human and I want... no, need, to be loved. So I light another cigarette praying that it might be a last as people beg me to stop and save myself. Maybe Im to far gone to be saved. In the end it all just leads to smoking alone in my room.