I can’t seem to find the words to express the thoughts in which I can’t seem to find .It’s as if my mind has been consumed with an emptiness that is weighing me down .My thoughts are always some place else , but it appears as though my consciousness has not been allowed the key to access them ,I’ve been locked out of my own mind for far too long and reality has never quite had the capacity to shelter me on its own .I’ve always avoided social interaction and interpersonal relationships ,contrary to popular belief ,this has not been caused by a hatred towards people or a fear of closeness . See , really the nature of my actions are much less poisonous then these claims .Ever since I was a child ,the ones who were essentially supposed to take care of me were engaged in things much more important then I ,or so it seemed .But I was never bothered by it , rather then growing hostile and craving the attention in which I was never granted , I found ways to compensate for myself .In a way , I used my self sufficiency and independence to be the tools that built the world inside of my mind ,a world in which I could be the person I wished to be , not the one I really was .I found companionship in solace ,because the absence of others allowed me to perceive them in an entirely different light ,there presence was merely just a cloud that diminished the enchanting and idealistic personas I’d created for them in my mind .Somewhere along the way I got lost ,I craved something concrete and tangible ,something I knew only reality could provide me with .The more in touch I tried to be with the real world , the more I felt myself loosing grasp of my blissful safe haven .Looking back I wish id never done so ,because all I found was disappointment and rejection .I became dedicated to isolating myself from others in hopes I would stumble back to the dreamland I was once able to call my own ,but in all my attempts I’ve failed . It’s like I’m stuck between two worlds and locked out of both .If I were an artist my mind would be a white canvas with no paint left ,If I were a writer it would be the blank page ,but all I’ve ever been is me ,all I’ve ever had was a world that slowly vanished and left behind nothing to show for it .
"I’ve had so many knives stuck into me, when they hand me a flower I can’t quite make out what it is. It takes time."
- Charles Bukowski, Screams From the Balcony (via in-caduta-libera)
(Source: rabbitinthemoon, via illkeepondreaming)
