Salvation

Nah.  The crap just makes the skin tougher.

...Or something.

This metaphor is getting out of hand.

Metaphors are like rabbits - sometimes they don't work both ways.

I'm quite pleased with that - it'd be a good 'humourous' quote for people to put on their signatures on message boards or something.

Thank you for your heart felt replies to my pieces dear. “I've got a crush on a pretty pistol…”  What happens when you stop caring? Some say that you’re dead inside, dying within. What happens when nothing matters anymore? Will time stop for you? Will people notice? Will the world spin in the opposite direction? Or will it even matter? What happens when the passion you felt before for something or someone dies?  Do you pass on along with it? What happens? Some say that…I've stopped caring. Some say that…nothing matters. A part of me is dead now. Am I dying along with it? there’s something that’s missing. A void that cannot be filled. A hole within that I'm falling into. A large part of me wants to confess my sins to the pretty pistol. A large part of me wants her to take it all away. Or maybe I just want to get away. From this. From them. From everything. If I stopped caring…if nothing mattered. What would happen?

What happened to me when I lost all emotions, was that I spent my days walking randomly around the streets, and the evenings mostly curled up in the corner of my room, with all lights out. So I've been told. I don't have more than few memories from that period. The rest was void/null/non-existent, as I used to express myself pretty mechanically back then.

After 2½ months of this, I remember realizing, that if I had known what it was like to be without emotions before I lost them, I wouldn't have liked it. That's when I started the long journey back.

My parents never noticed a thing. They were too busy drinking. My brother just didn't care, and my 'friends' abandoned me well before I collapsed. But being emotionless was easy. Time went by unnoticed. It might've saved my life, as the 2 weeks before collapsing totally, everything potentially lethal shone in my eyes, sharp stumps of branches, cars, knives, high falls...

In the end, it didn't matter one fuck to me, did I have emotions or not. Now, I see that it was nightmarish time. I have never been able to fill the hole that was left. The hate towards most people, cynic, almost pessimistic attitude.

In the end, if you pull the trigger, you'll just throw the burden to others. We do not know if there's something on the other side. We all will eventually die, but we'll live this once. Think well, if there is anything to live for on this side, and then think again. It's quite an irreversible decision.

So far, both of those whom I've talked to when thay were about to end it (other on a 8th floor balcony, other in the woods with a knife), found something, even if things looked insurmountably grim.

But there is little more that I could tell you. I can only say how things were with me, and some of that of the others. There are many of us suffering, but those that pull through, come usually out with more uderstanding, and a more open mind. Ultimately, what path you take, is your decision, and the freedom of decision is pretty much the only true freedom we have.

I'm sitting here in the darkness, and I wonder when it all began. Maybe it was earlier than I had imagined. Maybe it was later than I'd thought. The cherry wood of the table looks even darker in the pitch black hues of the room. I wonder if maybe I've always been like this, just too consumed with what everyone thought to notice. Too consumed with the thoughts of BJ, that were still underlying the moments of my day. I think maybe I wasn't always like this, that maybe a time ago I had felt something. Felt....anything. Mother sits down next to me on the sofa and she asks me what is wrong. I don't know, I tell her. She asks me what I need. Again I can only tell her I don't know. The cherry wood of the table seems to darken in the pitch blacks hues of the room. Maybe it began some time ago, and it's been building up inside of me. Or rather tearing me down. She tells me she can't read my thoughts, and if she could it might frighten her. She asks me what is wrong. I tell her I am hollow. She says she doesn't understand. I know you don't. The pitch black hues of the room seem to lighten, and the cherry wood table stands out through the crystal tears she wallows in. She asks me what I want her to do. I tell her I don't know. I hear her stifle a cry, but it doesn't seem to disturb me. She stands up and says she's sorry, and leaves me in the pitch black hues of the room....wondering when it all began.

I believe we don't see the way it is, before we are 'awakened' by some tragedy. We are dreamers, and think that everything's just sunshine and birdsongs, and try to forget all the darkness, despair and pain. I never felt so strongly present before my fall, as I do now. It's like the pills on Matrix, but you can't choose. I rather live seeing the dark, than in the clouds and sun.

“ Nothing can stop me now, cause I don’t care anymore.” My legs are crumpled beneath me as I sit on the side of the bed and become lost in the music. I open my eyes and glance downwards towards the carpet. It’s a smooth shade of cream. A virgin shade of cream. I close my eyes and become lost in the music again. I can feel the pools of blood surround my feet. The warm pools of blood collecting beneath the soles of my feet, around my toes and my heels. The blood beneath the arches turns cold from the drafts overhead. I open my eyes to see the carpet. The virgin shade of cream has been stolen, replaced by a crimson shade of lost innocence. I can feel the pools of blood around me, turning cold from the drafts overhead. I'm lost in the words as I close my eyes yet again. I lay my head between my knees and lace my fingers across the back of my neck. I'm lost in the words, as I feel the blood cascading down my neck, drops collecting at the base of my throat. Falling into the pools of blood on the carpet, that are collecting around my feet. I'm so lost in the words. I hear the last note of the song play and I open my eyes with a jerk. I look down beneath my legs to the floor. The cream color carpet still stands, it’s innocence yet to be defiled. I look to my wrists and I see no open wounds, but just the faint traces of almost healed times. I rumple my legs beneath me and sit on the edge of the bed. Sometimes I just get so lost in the words…

         I inhale and see the end of the cigarette light up, the smoke filling my mouth and lungs. The smoke spirals away from my lips, making small circles of bluish grey clouds around my head.
         I close my eyes and see the stars again. I smell the grass and the dew again, the hot air all around us. I taste the smoke in my mouth and lungs and I hear her say it again.
         â€œI love you.”
         â€œI know,“ I say.
         I open my eyes and the smoke seems to float away from me, on some blissful voyage up towards the fan.
         I glance up towards the ceiling and make out the small cracks in the plaster. The small room is so barren. I think the light bulb went out a few months ago.
         I don’t mind.
        “And my world falls down, and you’re there, calling out.”
        My head falls softly to the right and I hear her say it “I know.”
        The orange tint of the small bottle seems so frightening now. It’s contents now emptied and it’s label reading the name of someone other then me.
        A small smile creeps upon my lips and I bring the cigarette to my lips once more, inhaling less then I did minutes ago. The ceiling fan moves at a slower pace now. Or maybe I'm only imagining it. I wouldn’t know the difference anymore.
        I don’t think I want to die really. I love who I am. I love my life. I think. It’s not that I really want to die, it’s just…
        I don’t really want to die, I just want to see if I'll wake up.
        The  ceiling fan swings around even slower now, though it’s blades seem so much longer. Maybe I'm just imagining it.  
       â€œAnd my world falls down, and you’re there, calling out. But it’s something I can’t say. Though it seems the only way. But it’s a game I can’t play. Not today…
       â€œAnd the world falls down, and you’re there calling out…
       I close my eyes and I feel her fingers running through my hair.
       â€œI'm worried about you,” she tells me.
        “Don’t worry,” I tell her.
        “I'm pushing zero, where is my hero? He’s out there somewhere. Left of the middle. And your world falls down, and you’re there calling out…”
        I feel my face grow warm with tears.
        Am I crying?
        I take another drag of my cigarette and let it fall to the ground. I wonder when I left the room. Was I ever really there?
       â€œThere’s something I need to tell you. Trying to get through, it’s not always easy. Left of the middle…”


(Edited by Fallen at 10:40 pm on April 21, 2002)

I feel so empty inside. I feel so devastatingly empty inside. I feel
angry, and hopeless, and so terribly alone. I have hungering rage inside
of me, and it's as if nothing in the world will satisfy it. It's as if
nothing in the world will help me in this unrecognizable state that I'm
in. My senses are in a frenzy of despair as I careen up and down the
coast of happiness. I stare from time to time out the window, wondering
and waiting for when the ride will be over. I wonder and wait for when
I'll finally be able to sit on the shore and let the waves roll in, let
the water lap at my toes.
As for now, I sit here in my seat alone, wondering, waiting for the times
to come, for the time to pass.

I stare hopelessly at the ceiling, waiting for the golden splashes of
sunlight to drip down upon me. I stare longingly at the ceiling, waiting
for the drops of honey to rain down upon me--but there are no golden rays
of life this morning. There will only be pale, weeping moments of light
to filter in through the window this morning. There will only be lifeless
moments of wonder. Should I wake? Or let them pour through me, taking me
to where they lay?

It's the misery that makes people jump. It's the apathy that causes
countless people to cut. It's the things you think of like your father's
obsession with his cheap car that he'll someday 'pass down to his
daughter' that makes you cringe when you're making the noose. It's the
little things in between that cause you to slowly break down and become
so horribly miserable, so terribly hopeless, so utterly despondent that
you want nothing more than to end the charade and get it over with. Thats
why you take the entire bottle, thats why you pull the trigger. It's the
constant day-to-day whirl of waking up and knowing you haven't anything
to aspire to be. It's rolling over in bed and thinking to yourself that
there are no hopes you wish to have, no dreams you wish to follow that
finally makes it all seem sensible that ending it completely can be the
only, and final, answer.