Thursday, July 28, 2011
I committed suicide, of sorts. I tried to kill my past and all the people in it. I tried to purge my life of them all, those friends I never really cared much about, and even those who meant the world to me. For a time I thought clinging to them would stop me from drowning, but one day, I realised they were the reason I was drowning. They suffocated me because I was not like them; I was content to be outside of normal social parameters, but they kept trying to stuff me back in. They didn't know they were doing it, but they were. So I gave them all up, all you people who cared about yourselves. A clean break. Well, as clean a break as you can have in this society of non-existent privacy.
I created a world where I can be left alone with pen and a notebook of blank paper, words and thoughts and sketches streaming from the pen, bleeding ink across the pages which absorb my very essence. Those I hold more dear to me than any man, woman or child, and such it will always be. They contain those thoughts I drift through, the dreams which haunt my sleep, the hopes which brighten my waking hours, and the emotions I hold inside. Splashed across the paper are things far more interesting, wild and fantastical to me than any person will ever be. It may be a reclusive existence, but it is the perfect one for me. I don't regret my suicide.