my wrist
And now it is infected because of a stupid moment of weakness. What is the point of living if I am so obviously incapable of receiving love. In the famous words of the smiths am I "unloveable"?
I told myself that I did not want to even let anyone near me for a long time. I knew that if I did I would go mad. And I think quite possibly this is true.
I thought of myself as an old cow the other day. An old cow that has been milked and milked and milked. Every day. She is sooo old and tired. Eventually she cannot give milk anymore. She wants to desperately, yet she is physically incapable of it. The farmer has no choice. She has become lame. He kreeps up behind her one day with a sledge hammer and bashes her brains in so that he can sell her meat for profit. It has reached a point where the only way he can truly profit off of her is in death. The only way she is capable of providing for anyone at this point is in death. Yet she is glad to die. She is tired of being milked. She is tired of being tired. And her death brings comfort to those that fill thier bellies on her meat. She is happy for them.
The ancient Egyptians used to paint thier eyes so that the souls that were searching for them could find them easily. They believed the eyes are the window to the soul. I think this is true. If so, are my eyes the window to a window to my soul? It is hard for me to believe that my soul could be so close at hand. So close to bursting free of my carnal matter. It scares me to think someone could look directly into my soul, but you can read so much about a person through thier eyes.
Sometimes I wonder how a person would look into my eyes and not want to suck them into thier mouth like a ping pong ball. Just position thier mouth over my eye and suck as hard as they could. I am sure it would at least loosen the binding. Maybe with enough detirmination they could pop one out, and subsequently pop one in.
I told myself that I did not want to even let anyone near me for a long time. I knew that if I did I would go mad. And I think quite possibly this is true.
I thought of myself as an old cow the other day. An old cow that has been milked and milked and milked. Every day. She is sooo old and tired. Eventually she cannot give milk anymore. She wants to desperately, yet she is physically incapable of it. The farmer has no choice. She has become lame. He kreeps up behind her one day with a sledge hammer and bashes her brains in so that he can sell her meat for profit. It has reached a point where the only way he can truly profit off of her is in death. The only way she is capable of providing for anyone at this point is in death. Yet she is glad to die. She is tired of being milked. She is tired of being tired. And her death brings comfort to those that fill thier bellies on her meat. She is happy for them.
The ancient Egyptians used to paint thier eyes so that the souls that were searching for them could find them easily. They believed the eyes are the window to the soul. I think this is true. If so, are my eyes the window to a window to my soul? It is hard for me to believe that my soul could be so close at hand. So close to bursting free of my carnal matter. It scares me to think someone could look directly into my soul, but you can read so much about a person through thier eyes.
Sometimes I wonder how a person would look into my eyes and not want to suck them into thier mouth like a ping pong ball. Just position thier mouth over my eye and suck as hard as they could. I am sure it would at least loosen the binding. Maybe with enough detirmination they could pop one out, and subsequently pop one in.