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Words echo. I read the scrawls of a past life and feel every emotion as keen as if I am rooted deep, like a ghost or demon, into the mind of the writer. I feel it. I feel it so deeply, it aches in my very soul, rings through my bones and sets everything into a pained motion inside of me. How evil, how wicked it is, to be inspired by agony, to only feel intensity of sorrow or anger in order to hone a craft I so desperately desire to sharpen. How many more will suffer as I do, how many have felt this endless agony of loneliness, otherness, insignificance, inaccuracy? Does it unite us? Will our human suffering bind us throughout the ages? Does it make us even more human to feel this cutting sadness and know that others ache as we ache? Is this the only way? Why am I plagued by this unnamed inadequacy? A fear of doing nothing, of achieving nothing, being a quiet and forgettable flicker of a light that will be lost to the long train of humanity. Terror at loss. At not doing things now, of missing opportunities, of wasting what little time I have control of. Losing those that are the only true constant and stability in my life, the only who support me (to an extent), the only that care. Loosely do they care. A quiet, fading wave in the bottomless ocean. I am afraid. I am always afraid and aching. What am I going to do? When will I truly live? What have I lost from childhood to now that gave me life and energy to face the world each day? Why did I have to be abused? Why did I have to suffer the way I did? Why are things so unfair and why do you have to fight everyone about everything all the time? Sometimes I wish TH

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

Words echo. I read the scrawls of a past life and feel every emotion as keen as if I am rooted deep, like a ghost or demon, into the mind of the writer. I feel it. I feel it so deeply, it aches in my very soul, rings through my bones and sets everything into a pained motion inside of me. How evil, how wicked it is, to be inspired by agony, to only feel intensity of sorrow or anger in order to hone a craft I so desperately desire to sharpen. How many more will suffer as I do, how many have felt this endless agony of loneliness, otherness, insignificance, inaccuracy? Does it unite us? Will our human suffering bind us throughout the ages? Does it make us even more human to feel this cutting sadness and know that others ache as we ache? Is this the only way? Why am I plagued by this unnamed inadequacy? A fear of doing nothing, of achieving nothing, being a quiet and forgettable flicker of a light that will be lost to the long train of humanity. Terror at loss. At not doing things now, of missing opportunities, of wasting what little time I have control of. Losing those that are the only true constant and stability in my life, the only who support me (to an extent), the only that care. Loosely do they care. A quiet, fading wave in the bottomless ocean. I am afraid. I am always afraid and aching. What am I going to do? When will I truly live? What have I lost from childhood to now that gave me life and energy to face the world each day? Why did I have to be abused? Why did I have to suffer the way I did? Why are things so unfair and why do you have to fight everyone about everything all the time? Sometimes I wish TH