#31

All I want to do is write, this is my compulsion, but there are no words, there's no words coming from my mouth. Everything written here is complete dribble, literary dribble coming from my fingertips. I'm not physically writing this, I cannot, it's too straining on my mind, it's too straining in general, to see my own hands write a sentence, a paragraph about me, about what's going on in my life, about anything. This is why I type, i'd rather have it neatly online so it's always living in the depths of cyberspace.

Words written on paper can be burned, it can be engulfed in such beautiful flames and disappear. But then there is the possibility of regret within. Regret of saving the words once written down, grieving the sentences and paragraphs. Whereas here... I don't ever have to look back. I write, I post and it just stays there, I never have to read it again. Yet I have the compulsion to do, why do I do that? I'm too intrigued by my past self? I don't know, this piece of writing is such a mess, such a large stream of my consciousness. There's always the risk that I could type something that I don't necessarily want to see myself write but it's always taken over by the repetitive pressing of the 'backspace' key.

It's been a long time since I sat down and had a nice stream of consciousness because everything i've written on this blog seems not to make much sense, to have much structure, just paragraphs full of cues that only I know, that only I can know the true meaning of. I don't ask people to interpret it, but it can't be helped that people do. This frustrates me, it annoys me, actually no it does not. See, I'm confusing, everything is confusing. This post is confusing. Again it's just literary dribble coming from my fingertips.

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He screamed into his pillow after the exhausting voluntary confrontation. Almost a moment of suffocation that reminded him of the fact that he was alive and it did just happen. Deep heavy breaths just came one after the other while violent heart palpitations prevented him from sleep. Sleep, oh the moments of rest that were never enough for days on end, and even when he had enough it never felt like enough. He tried to remember the last time a sufficient sleep was obtained and although it was not too long ago, it felt like forever as he was trapped in this craving for rest. But it was never physical rest, it was always mental rest.

Hitting himself again and again mentally, how could he have just gone through that? How could he? How could he allow himself? It couldn't be possible could it? But it did. It did. He still hits himself now for it, thinking about it gives him uncontrollable twitches in the mouth or in the eyes as they violently blink or jibberish spilling. Within his mind is incomprehensible babble that doesn't make any sense, doesn't have any coherence whatsoever. It's still in that state for who knows how long...