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As I stir around my house on this morning, dazed from the lack of sleep I find my thoughts drifting constantly to the nightmares of times that I haven't stuck up for my self, times where I haven't asserted my feelings and perspectives on things that directly relate to my well being. I am a magnet and a sponge for all those things people consider weak. But I see it as strength and so I persist, because I believe that having virtue is virtuous (haha), however still my self righteous justification brings no relief.
I feel as though my eyes are welting up to tear in cries of desperation, only if I could cry, they would be tears of flame, bitterness and hate. I want to be held in the warm embrace of ignorance, because then I would have a real excuse. I feel dry inside like a paper balloon filled with the helium of my pain, and one day my ears with swallow the sounds of a lit match that will ignite the empty space inside my chest and tear me asunder, and It will be good. No longer would I hear the voices of a fools irony though in my skull like the sound of a million crickets singing the theme tune from the Andy Griffith show.
I guess all Im trying to say is. Miserable great people die too early and greatly miserable people live to long to become great, so whats the point? Ah, yeah! The point is to just be happy with who you are and with what life gives; well bullshit to that. I say so what if self-improvement is masturbation, masturbation feels good!