Cant sleep. Feeling down. My head is awash with all kinds of thoughts and insecurities. The ticking of the carriage clock is my only company. Its far too quiet outside. That means something bad will happen. No good ever comes of Skippers Meadow. Strange name. Conjures up images of wide open spaces where people of all walks of life are allowed to roam free. Instead its like council built chicken run version of Auschwitz. The buses dont offer returns from here. The last of the humans took the final smile with them. Now, its just me and them. I want to fight, but laws and codes prevent me from finishing what was started millennia ago. A one man army isnt enough to fall the overlord. But I cant risk outside help. There is no trust. Every man for himself now. It is to the death for all of us. The fight that we strive is a fight to survive. But who really has the guts to admit wrong doing? Who will stand against those who oppress us? Rally up behind me if you are brave, loyal or have nothing left to lose. A speech, wasted on deaf ears. Blind eyes hide behind hands that cover the face of embarrassment. I am alone. I stand out in the field of battle, bloodstained and weary. My rifle, ready with bayonet, awaits its next victim. Are my words not bullets to the brain of the unlearned? Have I wasted each and every shot in my struggle to provide a better place for us to live? Nay, it is not physical change I do so desire. I wish to implement a new regime against the barrage of mental discouragement. We all have a voice. Do not fear the consequences if you choose to make clear your thoughts or feelings. The enemy, they are afraid of change. They cower at the feet of those who stand up for their rights. I shall be heard. Let the voices ring. Let the people sing.................... Alas. I am alone. This empty shell which once housed a being, lies broken and forgotten at the roadside. I have no one to hear my cry. My call for help goes to waste. Depression is but a mental game. A form of chess where every piece is a pawn. A pawn that can foretell its fate. There is no end to this torture. No buffer to prevent insanity. Have I broken through already? I have my faculties, but does anybody really care? Does anyone ponder more than their materials? Is there anybody out there? This has become a place where even the echoes have fallen silent. It has become a tomb. This will be no shrine. No Mecca will be made of this mental grave. It shall forever remain hollow. Ready and waiting its next victim. I type as I think. Think nothing of feelings for others. Nor of ones self. Certain things must be said. I am not ready for you. I was, once. But I was beaten and abused. My life reveals itself to you in tatters. Each shred portraying a different part of my story. They are not ordered. Like my emotions and soul, they have been scattered to the four winds, falling like rain. And, like scraps of paper, are washed away with the tears down into the abyss below. I ask you not to pity me. I request you not to attempt in sharing my anguish. I know all to well that others have problems of a much greater degree. I am not an unfeeling bastard. Just ask yourself this, how can one not willing to care for himself care for the likes of the rest? I may not seem as though life troubles me in such ways, but every day is another conflict of emotion, pride, respect and general willingness to continue through until it is over. I know I am not like the majority. But I am not a minority. I want to be like you. Do all the things you do. Live, as you all do. But in my own way, at my own pace and in my own time. Do I have regrets? Yes. Do I wish I could turn back time and re-live moments lost in history? Yes. I would change a lot. Days where I have felt bad. Days where I have done bad. Days where I have scared those around me. My actions are often uncontrollable. I tell myself something is right when it is plainly wrong. Only after the event do I realise my mistake. Sorry. A word used too much and means very little at the best of times. But when I say it, I mean it. I do not need to be sorry for all things considered wrong. Blame, even when Im not around, manages to find its way to me like some ill-fated homing pigeon. Cant sleep. Feeling down. My head is awash with ever growing thoughts and insecurities. Will the rains ever cease?
Posted on: Wed, 21 Jan 2015 01:00:42 +0000
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