Corpsed by Obsession

Im too deep in now to stop, to attached to the voices in my head. Strung along by a foolish obsession that im not even sure i believe or understand myself. Constantly chasing a misrepresentation of perfection I have never agreed with. You can call it insanity, stupidity, down right moronic. Any number of things and you'd probably be right. In fact to say probably suggests that i would say otherwise, but that's the thing i wouldn't, I fully acknowledge that you'd be right by any logic but still this attachment persists no matter how much i have tried to shake it off. Still I return like a boomerang forever cursed to re-live the same path like a ghost trapped within the void. Tempted it almost seems by absoloutly nothing, a deep unquenchable desire fueled by imaginary whispers in my ears. Just a strange fascination of a demented mind. 

Somehow this all still has its charms, it's rewards hidden under all the fight and resistance. The threat and danger no longer a warning sign, stocked up as rewards for hard work. A bitter and twisted love hate relationship within my own head. 

This goal, this purpose, this unquestionable success. A need to be ,(for lack of a better word) perfect no matter the costs to make the achievements. That's what it all comes down to really an unexplained irrational fear of loosing, of failing ,of not being good enough. A herd of little insecurity's running rampant within the walls of my skull, demanding a solution to there dis-satisfied aspirations.

But is this a solution at all? Is this some great and elegant perfection, or is it just a sick and twisted shortcut to the grave? Perhaps at one point the line was more clear cut and I was more wary, the edge of my sanity more tightly clung to. Id perched for a while staring into the abyss of my own mental demise, torturing myself with forgotten triggers , buried beneath banished thoughts. Playing with fires ignited with my presence.

The desperation for some control, craving a comfortable finger hold in a world spinning to fast. Lost in this hunt for a non-existent self-satisfaction, an ideal that breaths the very essence of both mental and physical collapse. It's just not something that's easily reversible, you can't just remove a part of you. 

It latches on and clings to you or at least it feels like that, a little voice, a sound, just words repeatedly hammered out by the wind. A trembling hand forever clutching the back of your shirt. You can't run away from something that became you. It lays a trap for when you become aware of its betrayal, becomes a part of even your subconscious thoughts. A definition that will condemn you to your own destruction.