Sometimes your brain makes you a bystander to your own thoughts. Those thoughts might be scary or silly; they might be dystopian or nihilistic or they might make you feel like the eighth greatest wonder of the world; it doesn’t matter. The reins of control have been taken out of your hands and you’re only going where you’re being taken. But, in a bid to maintain a semblance of control, I carry a pen along and these words are from those travels of mine through the jungles of my sanity.
I stare at the wrist; where the blue veins beckon to me and I wish to slit them wide open. No, I have no desire to die yet. But, I want to see the blood flow, red, staining my hand, leaving its mark. I want to feel the pain, feel the destruction, I want to prove that I’m alive and I can stay alive. I want the proof of my life and I want to see with my own eyes, the blood in my veins flowing through my arteries, pumping through my heart and reaching corners that I’ll never explore.
I don’t know why this mood seizes me from time to time. Today, it might be because I performed extremely poorly on a test and the results show it. Times before it had been because I couldn’t control my urge for a cheese laden pizza or because I was doggedly pursuing the utmost frittering away of my minutes instead of using them for studying as I should have been. All in all, every time I disappoint myself, which is becoming more and more frequent with every year I grow older, the urge to destroy a part of me and admire the mess seems to grow stronger.
Is this what growing up pangs are? Or are these signs of something more deep-seated? I ask the questions and shoot down my own answers; because if I can’t be trusted to control myself enough to concentrate on a page of medicine, how can I trust myself to answer the big questions of life. I don’t believe in me. Because I prefer to believe in reality and reality stands to prove that nobody should believe in me.
I’m a body filled with inertia. That keeps me chained to my bed and in my head. In my own mind, I devise beautiful plans that are never carried out to fruition and regrets pile up over and over. I wish to go back to times when the joystick of my life was still in my hands and not in the unhealthy hands of some lazy, spineless couch potato. I’m resting on my past laurels and its doing nothing for me except make my ass bigger and I’m running out of excuses.
What do I do now? And how do I get my life back on track?
The veins still beckon to me and the only thing holding me back is the fear of my own pain. Maybe one day, I’ll get over that pain and that day, my hand will be stained red. In my current frame of mind, that seems a happy prospect.
It shouldn’t be, should it?
Girl in the Swing 