My mouth is made of ash and when I speak, only silt and grit is coming out. My eyes burn and burn and burn, little black holes in the pale, empty blotchy canvas that has become my face. I need a cigarette. I can't stop coughing.
Every morning I crawl out of bed to return to my automated life: ten hours, give or take, at the store, going home too tired to eat, smoke a few cigarettes, sleep restlessless, crawl out of bed to repeat.
I don't eat. Food is like a foreign substance, an exotic drug that I neither understand nor can afford. My stomach has long since stopped growling.
No, I do not feel the hunger pangs anymore. ineedthisineedthisineedthisineedthisineedthisineedthis.The only feeling left in my body is this dull ache somewhere in my chest, the physical pang of loneliness, a yearning for physical and emotional comfort. I want to touch and be touched
( ... )
hello ms suicide, glad you could join us. the topic on hand is "What to do with this Gary Jackson character?". what is your opinion on his state? hopefully we can come to a conclusion before mr mania returns.
that's what i was thinking also, but unfavorably the best gary can manage is the drugs. i think, that if it was possible for him to ever succeed, then maybe he'll find true love and painless plain existence. but then again, i don't give a damn. he'll try and try to be this self-destructive writer-genius that in itself is as fictional as his characters. it begs the question, is gary just a fictional person in the first place, and that maybe the characters in his imagination are the reality, and like alice through the looking glass he will one day realize this truth, and join the vast nation of fiction. at least he will finally no longer be alone. i'll continue to exist as his emotion, along with mr melancholy, mr mania, and mr joy(deceased).
Comments 4
My mouth is made of ash and when I speak, only silt and grit is coming out. My eyes burn and burn and burn, little black holes in the pale, empty blotchy canvas that has become my face. I need a cigarette. I can't stop coughing.
Every morning I crawl out of bed to return to my automated life: ten hours, give or take, at the store, going home too tired to eat, smoke a few cigarettes, sleep restlessless, crawl out of bed to repeat.
I don't eat. Food is like a foreign substance, an exotic drug that I neither understand nor can afford. My stomach has long since stopped growling.
No, I do not feel the hunger pangs anymore. ineedthisineedthisineedthisineedthisineedthisineedthis.The only feeling left in my body is this dull ache somewhere in my chest, the physical pang of loneliness, a yearning for physical and emotional comfort. I want to touch and be touched ( ... )
Reply
signed,
mr apathy
Reply
My usual answers to life's difficulties are an exorbitant amount of drugs or live and let live, or, better yet, a combination of the two.
However, I am not currently sure that this is a viable or wise solution to the problem.
Yours,
Daystar Suicide
Reply
signed,
mr apathy
Reply
Leave a comment