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elydesiaall I do is wallow in my own filth.
this existence that is nothing but an imaginary pile of made up atoms, fake ideals and distorted views, clogged feelings that just won't go down the drain. rotting and moulding at the bottom of the tub into meaningless grudges, desires, and regrets. reeking flesh of both verbal and physical arguments, inflamed thoughts yet unsaid words.
I sit in a dark corner and see through rose colored glasses to make myself feel better about the shit I'm surrounded by. there are no saviors in this world but I pretend that pile of sludge by my left foot is the divine soul come to rescue me.
a fish out of water, gasping for oxygen and wiggling with a fatal desperateness, in a world opposed to one's own. a mass of land-walkers, air-breathers; no one can understand this single-minded fish, and the fish can not understand the wordly. it can only wear a costume of legs, chop off its gills, and pine for the same luxuries.
there is a good job of faking it, a splendid performance. but every once in a while I'm brought back to my senses as another large pile of shit has fallen on me and I suffocate, unable to breathe until I once again dig myself out and find the costume that is my fake self to put back on.
nothing is left for me. this world is not for me. I can not dig through concrete with my own two hands, to even attempt at finding a place for myself. I'll never make it out of this place alive, so I will die.
--- inner narrative from "JACK"
author's note
I had some triggers this evening and so I worked with Jack's childhood, dealing with his amnesia and inability to be with others due to an invisible social wall.
thought writing this would be better than cutting myself so here we go.
good night.
ps - no, I'm not going into detail about Jack's life, and neither will I write about him before he was introduced in STRIPE. All you need to know should be mentioned in the story, and the rest is for the readers to imagine.
this existence that is nothing but an imaginary pile of made up atoms, fake ideals and distorted views, clogged feelings that just won't go down the drain. rotting and moulding at the bottom of the tub into meaningless grudges, desires, and regrets. reeking flesh of both verbal and physical arguments, inflamed thoughts yet unsaid words.
I sit in a dark corner and see through rose colored glasses to make myself feel better about the shit I'm surrounded by. there are no saviors in this world but I pretend that pile of sludge by my left foot is the divine soul come to rescue me.
a fish out of water, gasping for oxygen and wiggling with a fatal desperateness, in a world opposed to one's own. a mass of land-walkers, air-breathers; no one can understand this single-minded fish, and the fish can not understand the wordly. it can only wear a costume of legs, chop off its gills, and pine for the same luxuries.
there is a good job of faking it, a splendid performance. but every once in a while I'm brought back to my senses as another large pile of shit has fallen on me and I suffocate, unable to breathe until I once again dig myself out and find the costume that is my fake self to put back on.
nothing is left for me. this world is not for me. I can not dig through concrete with my own two hands, to even attempt at finding a place for myself. I'll never make it out of this place alive, so I will die.
--- inner narrative from "JACK"
author's note
I had some triggers this evening and so I worked with Jack's childhood, dealing with his amnesia and inability to be with others due to an invisible social wall.
thought writing this would be better than cutting myself so here we go.
good night.
ps - no, I'm not going into detail about Jack's life, and neither will I write about him before he was introduced in STRIPE. All you need to know should be mentioned in the story, and the rest is for the readers to imagine.
