9 views
Personal Diary | Chapter 3 |
CHAPTER 3
.♧.
CONJUGATION OF TRAUMA
• Tuesday June 2 •
My thoughts are as dark as the asshole of the world. I am disgusted to see how exhausted I am. How madly the slightest little annoyance aroused in me. How much I refrain from exploding, how much I internalize. But I feel so good in the middle of the mess, staring at the walls, staring at my face that I no longer recognize. And then first, how do we go about happiness? Me, happy people disgust me. All because I would like to feel so justified in being so bad and disillusioned ...
How to get rid of this layer of bad emotions ? It suddenly seems to me that I am taking pleasure in this nameless shit, because the truth is that I am afraid. I am scared to come out of my irrational navel-gazing. Because it is so hard to be. Giving birth to ourselves is the most difficult task there is. And what? All this does not prevent me from suffering. Happiness requires so much effort. Sadness is free. You subscribed as with your mobile phone plan. It is warm, enveloping. Happiness is cold, ephemeral at the first disappointment. He's an illusionist bastard. Happiness is for consumers of two-ball shows and comedies. Fuckin 'shit. It stinks of depression.
• Sunday, June 14 •
I do not know with what words of a human being I could describe the tumults that I contain. I am a bottomless pit in which emotions are born and renewed endlessly. An incessant ballet of suffocating sensitivity. But autistic from my own emotions, everything is painful. And as long as I try to observe myself, as much as I am, looks like a distant and blurred landscape, hidden by a thick mist. I cannot pinpoint with precision the different colors and all the multitude of complex nuances which compose it but only the empty forms which appear to me on the surface.
I am in pain. I hurt everything, for everything. And I'm so tired of being me, because I am an Other that I don't understand.
I always belonged to what is not me ... That's it.
• Tuesday, July 21 •
Hell night. The pain has still made torrents of insomniac tears drown in the bitter tastes of black coffees ... But I let my mind feverishly slide into this desire for an after.
After death.
[...]
Silence.
They talk to each other, huddled in the heat of tar smoke.
Unconscious people who meet, echoes filled with words of freedom ... Languages are untied and emotions are looked at, beautiful and decadent, confronting their gaze with hearts that knock and that flare up with strangely timed resonances of gloomy similarities. There are sighs of sweetness escaping and an exquisite combination of ancient trauma fills the space. His black eyes furiously excited by life whisper to me with a tender gesture that there is no absolute truth, only our own servitudes rooted in deep convictions. It was now a question of liquidating the pain by making it more bearable, perhaps even more beautiful ... Beautiful of our uncertainties to which we hear ourselves say that we are guilty; guilty of the nauseating vertigo of the irremediable, of the vertigo of the irreversible.
Happiness in bondage.
Obstinately.
• Monday, 03 August •
Medicines provide restful nights of sleep despite a spirit that is still not repaired or appeased. This soul that is still in pain, seeking by all means to relieve itself from absences, servitudes, from the fear of trauma carefully concealed in the bottom of the soiled conscience. Fear of death and the passing of time.
Fear of being afraid ...
How to belong again, locked in your own mind? How do you own a body you've never tamed? How to own dispossession ...
This body which needs to breathe, sensations, material emotions as in the very first stages of life. He has an appetite, a fierce appetite. It becomes the body of touch, the resonance between outside and inside. The interior too busy, too trapped in its own reflections ... Unable to react to its body envelope. A vital need to feel that you exist.
I would like to be this child that we take in our arms and that we flood with dripping love, to make my soul throw it out of my heart. Arms around me.
But I'm so cold...
And so far of you now.
© Birdy'
.♧.
CONJUGATION OF TRAUMA
• Tuesday June 2 •
My thoughts are as dark as the asshole of the world. I am disgusted to see how exhausted I am. How madly the slightest little annoyance aroused in me. How much I refrain from exploding, how much I internalize. But I feel so good in the middle of the mess, staring at the walls, staring at my face that I no longer recognize. And then first, how do we go about happiness? Me, happy people disgust me. All because I would like to feel so justified in being so bad and disillusioned ...
How to get rid of this layer of bad emotions ? It suddenly seems to me that I am taking pleasure in this nameless shit, because the truth is that I am afraid. I am scared to come out of my irrational navel-gazing. Because it is so hard to be. Giving birth to ourselves is the most difficult task there is. And what? All this does not prevent me from suffering. Happiness requires so much effort. Sadness is free. You subscribed as with your mobile phone plan. It is warm, enveloping. Happiness is cold, ephemeral at the first disappointment. He's an illusionist bastard. Happiness is for consumers of two-ball shows and comedies. Fuckin 'shit. It stinks of depression.
• Sunday, June 14 •
I do not know with what words of a human being I could describe the tumults that I contain. I am a bottomless pit in which emotions are born and renewed endlessly. An incessant ballet of suffocating sensitivity. But autistic from my own emotions, everything is painful. And as long as I try to observe myself, as much as I am, looks like a distant and blurred landscape, hidden by a thick mist. I cannot pinpoint with precision the different colors and all the multitude of complex nuances which compose it but only the empty forms which appear to me on the surface.
I am in pain. I hurt everything, for everything. And I'm so tired of being me, because I am an Other that I don't understand.
I always belonged to what is not me ... That's it.
• Tuesday, July 21 •
Hell night. The pain has still made torrents of insomniac tears drown in the bitter tastes of black coffees ... But I let my mind feverishly slide into this desire for an after.
After death.
[...]
Silence.
They talk to each other, huddled in the heat of tar smoke.
Unconscious people who meet, echoes filled with words of freedom ... Languages are untied and emotions are looked at, beautiful and decadent, confronting their gaze with hearts that knock and that flare up with strangely timed resonances of gloomy similarities. There are sighs of sweetness escaping and an exquisite combination of ancient trauma fills the space. His black eyes furiously excited by life whisper to me with a tender gesture that there is no absolute truth, only our own servitudes rooted in deep convictions. It was now a question of liquidating the pain by making it more bearable, perhaps even more beautiful ... Beautiful of our uncertainties to which we hear ourselves say that we are guilty; guilty of the nauseating vertigo of the irremediable, of the vertigo of the irreversible.
Happiness in bondage.
Obstinately.
• Monday, 03 August •
Medicines provide restful nights of sleep despite a spirit that is still not repaired or appeased. This soul that is still in pain, seeking by all means to relieve itself from absences, servitudes, from the fear of trauma carefully concealed in the bottom of the soiled conscience. Fear of death and the passing of time.
Fear of being afraid ...
How to belong again, locked in your own mind? How do you own a body you've never tamed? How to own dispossession ...
This body which needs to breathe, sensations, material emotions as in the very first stages of life. He has an appetite, a fierce appetite. It becomes the body of touch, the resonance between outside and inside. The interior too busy, too trapped in its own reflections ... Unable to react to its body envelope. A vital need to feel that you exist.
I would like to be this child that we take in our arms and that we flood with dripping love, to make my soul throw it out of my heart. Arms around me.
But I'm so cold...
And so far of you now.
© Birdy'
Related Stories
