I can’t write, because when I do it’s like seeing the monster emerge. Have you ever sat and wrote only to look down at what you read and not recognize it? To look down at it and see that monster you’d been trying to get rid of for oh so long sitting real and rampant before your eyes. It’s when the written page and memory no longer match up, when the dream blurs into reality. Writing bares the deepest thoughts, fears, hopes of the soul; your innermost consciousness. It’s such a personal thing and to look down at it bared that way and see only the fear, the hate, how weak you are; it makes me physically sick. I bleed through my pen as it does as much damage to me as a razor could, as a razor does. It’s like taking that sharp comforting edge to your soul and experiencing an entirely new kind of pain. It’s exhilarating. I walk that line between dream and reality neither in each. I am not looking through the glass on either side but rather, I am trapped in between panes.  I in the middle, and on either side, the people I could be.

I see a girl or rather a woman, sure of herself in all ways possible carefree successful yet at the exact same time she is not. She knows of where she’s been and that will never be completely erased. She’s alone, more alone than ever simply trapped on one side of glass from the rest of the world. Reality holds no comfort for me. It is simply another dream. It is the delusion that we all have purpose, meaning when really, reality should tell us we don’t. What does it all equal in the end anyways? A couple broken hearts, dashed dreams and a contentedness that we assume on the lot life has dealt us. She lives but she lives within the confines of reality. She lives the life that she’s been told to, reality, where we live to the expectations.

The other stays behind the glass of distortion where reality has no hold and dreams, nightmares the figurative world has no boundary. Again, she seems to be happy, but she lives in a dream not completely there. Her happiness is supplied but what she can get to replicate it. “Love” or sex, drugs, adrenaline, pain, whatever can get her to that place she so desperately craves. She catches a glimpse of the other side every once in a while and wonders if she could go there one day, and then the nightmares take over and she knows she never can. She remembers the monster she is. She remembers it all. She knows her life does not matter so she might as well enjoy it while she can. She lives fast and will die young. Again she is alone, more alone than she ever had been.  She lets her brilliance show on occasion as she can’t let go of hope for the person she could be, the ideal deity of herself but can never hold onto it with everything else running through her head. Constant fear, paranoia, anxiety, low self esteem, regret and anger all hold her down. She just keeps looking for that next high, when sex and the physical pleasure can no longer hold her up, and the adrenaline from brute pain can’t stop her sinking down into a cold numb state of detachment she’s left to find another option.

I am both and I am none, for neither can peacefully co-exist.  For reality to be reality the choices are made for you, predestined and heavily influenced by company, and everything, all your decisions of the past have become much too real. In the dream, nothing is real no matter how much you will it to be and for those memories you will to be a made up story they can remain as nothing more than a blur from the lost nights.

Nothing ever really quite goes away you know. Little glimpses of people I know can’t be there from out of the corner of my eye, their breath upon the back of my neck, a fleeting sensation of their hand pressed against me. Not all bad, not all good, none real. Spiders crawl across my body, trees burst into flame. I see it all. I hear them call my name, I hear them feed my fears and insecurities telling me it would be better if I moved out of this life and simply let go; I want to listen to them, I need to and I want to follow, yet I speak nothing for I know that speaking of it, that writing of it, is acknowledging it, making it reality and I will. For reality is a thing you can choose and it’s quite easy. You can deny all you want and sooner or later you will believe it. But as with everything, nothing can remain buried forever.

I need help to move on however as I can’t do it on my own. In every picture I paint it is always that, a picture of loneliness. “Lost and forsaken she sat among the ruins of her shattered dreams.” It is where I sit now, desperately trying to keep it together. I need someone to tell me it is okay to let go, to allow my body and mind to separate and slip away. I need someone real to do that for me, else they need to outline exactly why I shouldn’t as I can’t come up with that answer for myself anymore.

I no longer live for me, I live for others, I live to please, and I live to serve. I have will for myself no more.  I can’t do it for myself anymore. I do it for him, in a way I do it for us, because the thought of an eternity without him holds no comfort for me, only desolation and a deep aching sadness.

I’d give anything; do everything, to be okay for him, so eventually, just maybe, I could be okay for me…