(no subject)
I'm going out of my mind about now. I'm mad I think, maybe my sister was right to say I had serious mental problems.
Misery is not romantic. Sadness is not romantic. Fucking feeling like your blood is boiling and you want to rip everyone around to shreds is NOT romantic. Family openly treating you like you're a burden and a mistake that doesn't really deserve to live is not romantic. Dreams in which you always end up the one being killed are not romantic.
I can't take this sensitivity of people. Suffering is not always romantic. On more than one cloudy, misty morning it makes you want to go and jump in front of the fucking train and I've seen that; bits on the tracks are not romantic. Carpets stained in blood are not. Arms when they bleed are not.
And the worst of it is if you're completely unable to get any lesson out of it, no strange mystical inspiration from a lousy miserable life. Because your own sensitivity is locked out to hold those miserable thoughts at bay.
Misery is not romantic. Sadness is not romantic. Fucking feeling like your blood is boiling and you want to rip everyone around to shreds is NOT romantic. Family openly treating you like you're a burden and a mistake that doesn't really deserve to live is not romantic. Dreams in which you always end up the one being killed are not romantic.
I can't take this sensitivity of people. Suffering is not always romantic. On more than one cloudy, misty morning it makes you want to go and jump in front of the fucking train and I've seen that; bits on the tracks are not romantic. Carpets stained in blood are not. Arms when they bleed are not.
And the worst of it is if you're completely unable to get any lesson out of it, no strange mystical inspiration from a lousy miserable life. Because your own sensitivity is locked out to hold those miserable thoughts at bay.