Status: Incomplete & Inactive... for now, anyway
Melancholy Romance
July 27, 2004
There's something about the quick, clean slice of a razor's edge; penatrating deep between two folds of human flesh; that I find almost as hard to articulate as other's find it to contemplate. The stinging sensation that quivers throughout your entire body as the pain begins to esculate and the blood begins to ooze. None of your problems have been erased, and none of your situations have improved, but yet, you feel a sense of relief. Your blood becomes the ejaculation of a self-induced pleasure of pain; created by the rough caress of a foreign body sliding swiftly between the external and the internal portions of yourself. A euphoric orgasm fills your soul as the physical pain overrides the emotional; numbing the mental desolation inside you, if even for just a second.
I've come to find that it's these few seconds are the most fulfilling and pleasurable moments I expirence these days. I don't want it to be true, but I honestly feel as though every last bit of joy has been vacuumed out the expirences I endure throughout my life. It seems that every former joy of mine has morphed into a frustrating and agonizing chore; be it music, love, or social interaction. I keep trying to force myself into all the things that once made my life enjoyable, but I just can't motivate myself towards actually doing it. I don't get much human interaction on the clock other than the times I spend with Johnny in the basement, but even that will never amount to the times when it was the three of us; me, Johnny, and Ritchey.
Johnny's still astonishing on that guitar; a real prodigy, in my eyes; but the music is overwhelmingly lacking without Ritchey's lyrics intertwinned. The mood is a lot less uplifting without Ritchey's crude humor, too. I think we missed the sincerity in his wise cracks back then; those sinister remarks about death and the like with a humorous twist. They always managed to get me to crack a smile, though, and even release a snicker every once in a while. Ritchey and I led cold, tortured lives; as if a grey smog had entangled both of us indefinatley; but Ritchey always managed to let in that neglected breath of fresh air. That's just the way he was. Even in the state he was in mentally, we were always first in line for cheering up. Maybe if he had saved some of that cheering up for himself, I would still be able to snicker and crack that smile every once in a while. Or, less selfishly and more sincerely of me, he would still be able to smile every once in a while.
Losing Ritchey was just another mental slaughter to add to the list, though. Even when Ritchey was around I was still despaired, aggrivated, and frustrated by just about every thought that passed between my ears. I'm just too smart and too logical to lead an everyday life, I suppose. I've tried to explain that to people a few times, and they've always just starred back at me; their laughter visibly throbbing in their throats as they fought to hold it in. I know they thought I was losing it, and I guess you can say that was a close guess, but if this 'it' refers to sanity and 'sanity' refers to mental stability, then I've long since lost it. Ritchey was the only person I could ever talk to about this stuff, since he was the only one who had both felt it and gained my trust and respect, and without him around my brain has just become another dump site; the thoughts, worries, and aggrivations piling up like pollution alongside an astonishing landscape (this 'astonishing landscape' being my potential, happiness, ignorance, and everything else I've lost in the depths of cold, hard humanity).
There's really no use in me dwelling over all this. I know this well, but it's all much easier said than done. I tell myself everyday to be an optimist. I know better than anyone that letting myself drown in a vicious whirlpool of sorrows will only worsen the matter, but, having done that for so long now, I no longer have the motivation to pull myself out. False fronts have improved my day or even my week at times, but I always end up back where I started: distressed, sluggish, lost, anxious, and, most of all, emotionless and catastrophically carefree.
I've come to find that it's these few seconds are the most fulfilling and pleasurable moments I expirence these days. I don't want it to be true, but I honestly feel as though every last bit of joy has been vacuumed out the expirences I endure throughout my life. It seems that every former joy of mine has morphed into a frustrating and agonizing chore; be it music, love, or social interaction. I keep trying to force myself into all the things that once made my life enjoyable, but I just can't motivate myself towards actually doing it. I don't get much human interaction on the clock other than the times I spend with Johnny in the basement, but even that will never amount to the times when it was the three of us; me, Johnny, and Ritchey.
Johnny's still astonishing on that guitar; a real prodigy, in my eyes; but the music is overwhelmingly lacking without Ritchey's lyrics intertwinned. The mood is a lot less uplifting without Ritchey's crude humor, too. I think we missed the sincerity in his wise cracks back then; those sinister remarks about death and the like with a humorous twist. They always managed to get me to crack a smile, though, and even release a snicker every once in a while. Ritchey and I led cold, tortured lives; as if a grey smog had entangled both of us indefinatley; but Ritchey always managed to let in that neglected breath of fresh air. That's just the way he was. Even in the state he was in mentally, we were always first in line for cheering up. Maybe if he had saved some of that cheering up for himself, I would still be able to snicker and crack that smile every once in a while. Or, less selfishly and more sincerely of me, he would still be able to smile every once in a while.
Losing Ritchey was just another mental slaughter to add to the list, though. Even when Ritchey was around I was still despaired, aggrivated, and frustrated by just about every thought that passed between my ears. I'm just too smart and too logical to lead an everyday life, I suppose. I've tried to explain that to people a few times, and they've always just starred back at me; their laughter visibly throbbing in their throats as they fought to hold it in. I know they thought I was losing it, and I guess you can say that was a close guess, but if this 'it' refers to sanity and 'sanity' refers to mental stability, then I've long since lost it. Ritchey was the only person I could ever talk to about this stuff, since he was the only one who had both felt it and gained my trust and respect, and without him around my brain has just become another dump site; the thoughts, worries, and aggrivations piling up like pollution alongside an astonishing landscape (this 'astonishing landscape' being my potential, happiness, ignorance, and everything else I've lost in the depths of cold, hard humanity).
There's really no use in me dwelling over all this. I know this well, but it's all much easier said than done. I tell myself everyday to be an optimist. I know better than anyone that letting myself drown in a vicious whirlpool of sorrows will only worsen the matter, but, having done that for so long now, I no longer have the motivation to pull myself out. False fronts have improved my day or even my week at times, but I always end up back where I started: distressed, sluggish, lost, anxious, and, most of all, emotionless and catastrophically carefree.