Week after week would pass by.
And week after week I'd feel like I had failed at something. Failed at living. Miserably. Failed at being myself.
I wanted to write works for generations to unveil,
I wanted to create masterpieces for the minds to unravel.
Create melodies to drown hearts.
Week after week I'd feel how painful my existence was. Even regardless of the ever-present burning reminding me of my ever-so-caged leached innermost desires and creative urges that weren't acted out. Their fading self-destruction burned holes into the surface of the dying star that was my soul.
What the surrounding world considered fun pastimes just sent all that into overdrive, even just the threatening thought of those situations did.
Tonight, they got me close to the breaking point again.
The huge, shapeless, devilishly grinning ugly snake.
The vision of the room stacked to the roof with boxes and discarded things - blurry of vicious tears. A blind black window. The hurtful memories and truth unleash