burried treasure

There’s always been a distinct indifference between a child and an adult, not the obvious size discrepancy or mental development but rather the honest nature, the level of purity almost every single soul loses somewhere along the way of growing up.

A child will kick and scream, it will act erratically until someone adheres to its needs. It will refuse to sacrifice and even when a child is dishonest it is still innocence in its most absolute form. All adults ever do is complain with more advanced vocabularies, they scratch their aging heads because they just can’t understand why it’s so goddamn hard to have a firm grasp on life. I think this way to myself almost every second I am conscious, the only exceptions are when I disappear in the folk ridden sounds that I refer to amazingly brilliant music or when I masturbate because I refuse to have sex until marriage.

____________________________________________________

I often think out loud to myself how it is I’ve become so ungrateful. There are the conspicuous reasons of getting beaten as a kid, molested as an older kid, and rejected all the years afterwards from family, friends, and relationships, but those are all aspects that I can fill with some rendition of resilient behavior. Something tells me that inside all of the retarded details, that never seemed too hesitant to take place in my life, is something deeper, something way beyond the collaboration of irrational thinking I do alone because after all, who the hell else is going to know what I’ve been through.

___________________________________________________

I really do wish that I was younger, that I had the power to change past events; I know that as much as I would like to change certain public catastrophes like school shootings or assassinations I would use the power strictly to myself, my own selfish plea for happiness. I guess at the end you start thinking about the beginning, especially when it comes to relationships. Every smile that lit you up, the simple tone of their voice that you can never forget, the holding of hands that made you feel so f*****g alive…all these things that you forgot play back in your head like it’s a made for TV movie, scene after scene makes you realize how much you messed up. And the saddest moment of being normal is knowing that even when you haven’t messed anything up at all you blame yourself anyway, it’s just that never dying need for attention, we all seek it in our own ways, after a while when being ignored is far too common we simply give up and hope to god, even if we don’t believe in him, that someone will notice.

____________________________________________________

I love how everyone is insecure, about their weight, about their faces, their accents, their existence; it pleases me knowing how awful people choose to see themselves.

It makes me feel better about who I am.

But feeling good about myself happens about as often as someone guessing the exact amount of jelly beans in a jar to win a large sum of money, if you foolishly believe that an event based purely on luck happens very often I’m afraid I will have to shatter your bubble of hope and inform you that it rarely does.

It’s an awkward feeling knowing I’ve become an individual who flirts constantly with insanity because of something someone else has done to me, I feel so weak and inferior, and at times I think that maybe if I take their life I will feel great redemption and no longer have to worry about what they did to me but rather what I did to them.

And after the all years of callous living I don’t think at all I will feel guilt, my hands are cold from reaching, my feet still warm because I never stopped running.

____________________________________________________

The greatest thing about being shy is the chess game that you sit back and watch. While the other person makes one move, you’re waiting for the perfect opportunity to make yours. It’s moments like these that can never be replaced. Never.

____________________________________________________

I’ve been documenting my thoughts since I was thirteen years old, and while all of my rich two story home, filled with everything modern and nothing old, pals were off taking snowboarding trips, their parents becoming wealthier and wealthier I was in my crowded a*s two bedroom apartment with five other lives both passively and openly ignoring my childhood.

It’s a funny aspect of life to me, when someone tells you something awful and horrible about yourself and whether it’s of truth or not you don’t believe it at all, but once it’s all over and when the haze of insults finally rids itself that’s exactly when you start believing every word they’ve uttered.

They told me I was worthless, no good, a burden, a waste, I should have just been left in all those group and foster homes, I was the devil, I was ugly, I everything that simply wasn’t good. After a while I suppose hearing things like this really messes with your head, you start turning into those kids who dress in all black and paint their faces with gloomy and ominous portrayal, your exterior may not show it but it really is the inside that counts.

If I could go back and defend myself I’d be there wondering why I was receiving that kind of abuse, and then when it was all over, when the voice box of these monsters finally needed some rest I would just say f**k you and walk away.

Since I’m going to be a pointless train wreck anyway, why the hell not?
That’s the thing about contemplation and reflection, everything always ends up better than reality, and believe me, it’s a fantastic show.

____________________________________________________