i miss the days i could write.
this is an old entry that i found on my other journal...
i really wish i could still write like this:
On the way back home I had to read a play called no exit for my
Fullterton competition.
I have a totally different outlook on life right
now..
I may have arrived at my own personal hell sooner than I thought i
could have. But that is least of my concern...
COMPETITION
is what kills. It's what gives people pleasure every morning when they wake up
and see that they are on top of everybody, looking down on them. You can deny it
all you want, but it's in everything you do. For some people, it's gone. Being
niave is the best way to go through with it. Others, it's very fluent in them,
they show it off to everybody.
Then there are others.. people who pretend to
be niave, but they know so much more than what most people think. These people
thrive on human emotion everyday. The best ones are the less obvious, the ones
thought to be so vulnerable and weak. They crawl under your skin, they posion
your mind with a little of themselves in you. You're their human robot.
But
what happens when you collide the same personalities together? Do you end up
with something ugly.. or something beautiful? Hope would want it to be
beautiful, but fate leads it to be and ugly horrible thing. How's it come to be
like that..?
competition.
we all must build ourselves for that moment you
can glorifying in your mind's pride that you've done it. You've managed to
overcome your own emotions from getting involved. They're yours. You can do
whatever you want with them, without them making you feel a thing.
Oh yes, i
must sound insane as of right this second. but it's so true. What happens when
the weak competition tries to put you under your spell? I managed to find that
on my own. Pretend they're in control until that moment you can squash their
pride. Months later when you're in contact with them, does this all bother you?
NOPE.
I am their canvas, they're the paints. They paint colors all over me.
but who has the final say in all of this... THE ARTIST.
They
can go along painting me with fake emotions, surreal situations, plastic words..
but the artist in which i call myself will make these weak colors and shapes
into my very own masterpiece.
I'm invicible.
Don't try to shoot me
down.
I won't give up the fight.
Step forward one more time, and you'll
step back two more times in regret.
Oh god.
What have I become.
I AM A
MONSTER.Lord.
Please tell me my days in hell are
through.