Hello. So, this is my 1st post here, but I’ve been lurking. You can skip down to the bottom, but, I just wrote a little bit of how I feel (with a mix of religion). It’s a kind of story, because I like writing them.
The music wasn’t meant to give peaceful ending; each beat from the song repetitively pounded against the walls of the house, but accompanying the music was the drumming of the bath’s faucet water against the surface of water held within the tub, and it created the perfect combination of noise and melody. With the close of the door, the music became a subtle yet still resonating thud against the foundation. Then, as the tub filled to it’s edge and the faucet was shut off, the music became new; the only sounds were the final drops from the tap and the reverberating beats. It became the overture. Dipped in by head, the music along with the agitation of the water as ripples had become waves -then ripples again- morphed to a barely audible muffle. The things that none want to hear about become sound-waves stopped by water-waves. Breaths become something that was wished for: bright, shiny bubbles that live out their lifespans as things able to rise. They look down at their source that sinks then pop; they become one with the source again, they disappear as vapor, or they rise to the heavens and live forever (or so the children are told). Bubbles cease, and ripples vanish into the edges of the acrylic. What is left now is cold and bitter silence at the album’s end.
For most of my life, I’ve been on the shy side. It was somewhat easy to make friends while growing up going to a private Christian school since, now looking back on it, it seemed “cult-ish” and freaky and everyone was cookie-cut. But I moved from there when I was in about 4th grade to the South from Oklahoma to be closer to family (because everyone in my family was dying). Fast forward a couple of years: I’ve been quite lonely. I have made “goodÂ acquaintancesÂ “, but only one “good friend” (though she’s actually a terrible friend). I’ve seen a lot of doctors, because depression struck me @ young, but I’ve never actually stuck to one medication, because it all made me feel insignificant and needy. I wanted to be independent from them. Anyway, from 7th to 10th grade, I began to wish every single night that I would not turn 18. For some reason I would be having a good day, laughing with my fake friends, and then I would die, and it would be “ok!” I graduated and began college as soon as I turned 18 it seems and cursed everything, wondering if I would have to take matter into my own hands. I did not want to live to be 16, 17, or *shock* 18. I feel guilt somehow when someone’s life is taken from them early on and wish it was me, or those who have like 3 years to live or something. December, I was diagnosed with PCOS , which probably wont kill me itself of course. “Ok big deal.” I’m half-way there, I realized I was killing myself, and it is “ok!” But it’s really slow. I cry myself to sleep; when I finally get to sleep, I always dream of death caused by someone I come into contact with; when I wake up in the morning, I think of how I could possibly die when I step out of the door and go to my classes. Death follows me in my thoughts and it’s been INCREDIBLY lonely. I have not had the strength to talk to anyone about my feelings or thoughts, and it’s a wonder I haven’t offed myself yet. So! Here I am, posting online. Maybe someone has read thus far. I’m just glad I could finally get -some- of this off my chest.
I’m done ranting. 662 words.