Depressed and late at night.
It's funny, really.
I know why people cut themselves, or burn themselves, or hurt themselves. But more than that. I know why people go into cage matches, fights, etc. All that bullshit.
And I know that the pain stops mattering much. When you live in pain, more doesn't make a different.
It doesn't stack, or add up. It builds to a certain point, and stays there. You can only feel so much before you go numb. Both externally and internally.
And of course, when you feel too much inside, you go to a numbness that doesn't end. You die slightly. Not an irreversable death, but a death that makes you (made me, anyways) place slightly less value on life.
It makes me laugh.
I used to be scared of the dark. Deathly scared. I slept with my light on until the age of 13. Then suddenly, I didn't need it any more. And somewhat to my horror, I know why I didn't need it, what the catalyst was.
My fears used to stem from the unknown. I was afraid something would harm or kill me during the night. I never grew up with a sense of comfort or security, more a sense of insecurity, fear and worry. I spent so many nights laying huddled under my blanket, a narrow channel to breath through, shivering at the thought of what might be out there, lurking, waiting to take me.
I even had nightmares within nightmares. Something would crash through my window, I'd wake up shaking, only to have something emerge from beneath my bed and kill me. Wake up in the cold sweat characteristic of nightmare's, to be taken via the window again. Then by the foot of the bed, or by under it. My record was 6 death's in one dream.
So many years huddled under the blankets. Not such an unusual thing perhaps, but to last until 13, with the light blazing every night... Not so common.
Then came my change, the removal of the light, and the total lack of need for a blanket. I wasn't afraid of sleeping by an open window. I in fact relished it, enjoying the breeze, the moon and the pure vulnerability.
In one simple step, I'd gotten over my fear of the dark and unknown. I stopped caring whether I lived or died. My life no longer mattered to me, and the thought of something coming through the window to eat me alive, or take me away for torture before devourment... No longer frightened me.
I spent so many nights laying there, willing something to come and end it all. To take me by the throat and make me a creature of the night, to ravage me in bed and leave a grisly reminder of why you should fear the night.
At 19 years of age, I carry a slight fear of the unknown, yet not a true fear of death or destruction. On occassion, I'd welcome the vicious attack of something intending to end me.
Nineteen and I don't value my life.
Don't get me wrong. I love life and everything in it (to a degree). I just don't really care whether I live or die.
Perhaps that's because I know a little about what comes after. Or perhaps I've realised that no matter how famous I become, no matter what I do, I won't be remembered by anyone.
Perhaps it just really doesn't matter. It does scare me somewhat, though.
Anyways, what originally started this post. Pain.
People are so afraid of pain. Yet it doesn't matter to me at all. Being punched, cut, kicked or hit. It just doesn't matter. I hate the marks it leaves, I hate all marks on my body that don't look stylised. Bruised, cuts, scars, hickeys, all of them. But the pain doesn't matter.
You see so many people afraid of being hurt. I dislike the aftereffects, but the pain itself is something so trivial and ignoreable that it's funny when people get scared of it.
I enjoy it. Helps me get just that little bit of life-fire back into me.
I know why people cut themselves, or burn themselves, or hurt themselves. But more than that. I know why people go into cage matches, fights, etc. All that bullshit.
And I know that the pain stops mattering much. When you live in pain, more doesn't make a different.
It doesn't stack, or add up. It builds to a certain point, and stays there. You can only feel so much before you go numb. Both externally and internally.
And of course, when you feel too much inside, you go to a numbness that doesn't end. You die slightly. Not an irreversable death, but a death that makes you (made me, anyways) place slightly less value on life.
It makes me laugh.
I used to be scared of the dark. Deathly scared. I slept with my light on until the age of 13. Then suddenly, I didn't need it any more. And somewhat to my horror, I know why I didn't need it, what the catalyst was.
My fears used to stem from the unknown. I was afraid something would harm or kill me during the night. I never grew up with a sense of comfort or security, more a sense of insecurity, fear and worry. I spent so many nights laying huddled under my blanket, a narrow channel to breath through, shivering at the thought of what might be out there, lurking, waiting to take me.
I even had nightmares within nightmares. Something would crash through my window, I'd wake up shaking, only to have something emerge from beneath my bed and kill me. Wake up in the cold sweat characteristic of nightmare's, to be taken via the window again. Then by the foot of the bed, or by under it. My record was 6 death's in one dream.
So many years huddled under the blankets. Not such an unusual thing perhaps, but to last until 13, with the light blazing every night... Not so common.
Then came my change, the removal of the light, and the total lack of need for a blanket. I wasn't afraid of sleeping by an open window. I in fact relished it, enjoying the breeze, the moon and the pure vulnerability.
In one simple step, I'd gotten over my fear of the dark and unknown. I stopped caring whether I lived or died. My life no longer mattered to me, and the thought of something coming through the window to eat me alive, or take me away for torture before devourment... No longer frightened me.
I spent so many nights laying there, willing something to come and end it all. To take me by the throat and make me a creature of the night, to ravage me in bed and leave a grisly reminder of why you should fear the night.
At 19 years of age, I carry a slight fear of the unknown, yet not a true fear of death or destruction. On occassion, I'd welcome the vicious attack of something intending to end me.
Nineteen and I don't value my life.
Don't get me wrong. I love life and everything in it (to a degree). I just don't really care whether I live or die.
Perhaps that's because I know a little about what comes after. Or perhaps I've realised that no matter how famous I become, no matter what I do, I won't be remembered by anyone.
Perhaps it just really doesn't matter. It does scare me somewhat, though.
Anyways, what originally started this post. Pain.
People are so afraid of pain. Yet it doesn't matter to me at all. Being punched, cut, kicked or hit. It just doesn't matter. I hate the marks it leaves, I hate all marks on my body that don't look stylised. Bruised, cuts, scars, hickeys, all of them. But the pain doesn't matter.
You see so many people afraid of being hurt. I dislike the aftereffects, but the pain itself is something so trivial and ignoreable that it's funny when people get scared of it.
I enjoy it. Helps me get just that little bit of life-fire back into me.