So, when I rant about my feelings or my life to paper sometimes things make sense, and sometimes things come out in artistic, colorful descriptions and metaphors. Don't ask me why. I don't think this rant was even about anything in particular. It was sort of about everything. Anyway, hey! Why not? It's still a decent description of emotion.
I literally wrote this line and then nothing was concrete after that: "I don’t even know. I just need to rant."
The world is spinning so fast I can’t even see and the very ground beneath my feet is collapsing beneath me, sending me endlessly plummeting down a pit of despair. The wind whips my face, bitter and harsh, tearing the tears from my eyes, or it would, if I still knew how to cry. There’s no reason to cry anymore. I’m too numb, too hopeless to express my emotion in such a pure form. The stress and pain of existence rips at my chest like I’m being gored by it, but nobody can hear the screaming inside my head.
Falling, falling, falling. Tumbling through space. No escape. The sky is endless, heartless, a dark and dangerous void.
The people around me don’t see my world. We live on different planes. My heart is desperate to spill, to give myself some form of relief, but only paper really listens. There is only the scratch of a pencil, the tapping of keys.
The isolation is indefinite. I can push it back and pretend it doesn’t exist, but it’s an infinite force field that drives out friendship and love. Every time I pass through the walls that hold me, the people I try to reach only make me a joke, a freak, an outcast, shoving me down, pushing me out, treating me like an animal, or a robot, a novelty. They cannot see me as a person, only a target. They cannot see the stories singing melancholy notes in my despairing mind, asking me to please, please just change something to escape the cycle, begging me to please, please just try to survive.
I do try. To no avail. Resistance against nature is futile. I am my only confidant, myself and my paper.
Paper is special. It protects me. It’s a friend, a hope, drawing upon dreams, working out nightmares. When people hear that I write they don’t see what it is to me, they don’t know how it’s my life, my world. They call me a nerd, not affectionately, but with bitter notes instead, telling me to give up my dreams and get a life, to change who I am and conform to a mold manufactured by society for every teenaged girl to fill, a mold that could never hold me and all the flying colors of my imagination, tendrils of light piercing my life’s dark veil, reaching for imagined stars.
I will keep on reaching. What else do I have?
So, when I rant about my feelings or my life to paper sometimes things make sense, and sometimes things come out in artistic, colorful descriptions and metaphors. Don't ask me why. I don't think this rant was even about anything in particular. It was sort of about everything. Anyway, hey! Why not? It's still a decent description of emotion.
I literally wrote this line and then nothing was concrete after that: "I don’t even know. I just need to rant."
The world is spinning so fast I can’t even see and the very ground beneath my feet is collapsing beneath me, sending me endlessly plummeting down a pit of despair. The wind whips my face, bitter and harsh, tearing the tears from my eyes, or it would, if I still knew how to cry. There’s no reason to cry anymore. I’m too numb, too hopeless to express my emotion in such a pure form. The stress and pain of existence rips at my chest like I’m being gored by it, but nobody can hear the screaming inside my head.
Falling, falling, falling. Tumbling through space. No escape. The sky is endless, heartless, a dark and dangerous void.
The people around me don’t see my world. We live on different planes. My heart is desperate to spill, to give myself some form of relief, but only paper really listens. There is only the scratch of a pencil, the tapping of keys.
The isolation is indefinite. I can push it back and pretend it doesn’t exist, but it’s an infinite force field that drives out friendship and love. Every time I pass through the walls that hold me, the people I try to reach only make me a joke, a freak, an outcast, shoving me down, pushing me out, treating me like an animal, or a robot, a novelty. They cannot see me as a person, only a target. They cannot see the stories singing melancholy notes in my despairing mind, asking me to please, please just change something to escape the cycle, begging me to please, please just try to survive.
I do try. To no avail. Resistance against nature is futile. I am my only confidant, myself and my paper.
Paper is special. It protects me. It’s a friend, a hope, drawing upon dreams, working out nightmares. When people hear that I write they don’t see what it is to me, they don’t know how it’s my life, my world. They call me a nerd, not affectionately, but with bitter notes instead, telling me to give up my dreams and get a life, to change who I am and conform to a mold manufactured by society for every teenaged girl to fill, a mold that could never hold me and all the flying colors of my imagination, tendrils of light piercing my life’s dark veil, reaching for imagined stars.
I will keep on reaching. What else do I have?
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