Still trucking, still grinding

Not much has changed. Still trying to weather the storm, trying not to wither. Tears gone dry, maybe not for the better. They were messy but cathartic.

Still looking. Still wanting. Everyday, still wishing to go.

Been a while.

Once you get accustomed to something, it gets easier to live with it. I can almost see that dark, decrepit muck living inside me, at the pit of my stomach, deeply rooted.

He just stays there. Most days he just languishes, permeating into the inner bowels of what he touches. Almost seems to be ignoring me. Neither happy nor sad. Some days I even get to forget he's there. But then I remember.

I remember I can always free him. That I can open myself up, let him go. Then I'd be free too.

A little different

I read about others and most of them want to just die but not actually kill themselves. They seek to cease to exist but are not really suicidal.

I'm quite the opposite. I don't want to die but I'd really like to kill myself. It probably makes little sense but I'd like to kill myself but not die. I think of this daily without fail. How I should stab myself so I can kill myself. The main problem is after that comes death. After death, nothing.

Flight not fight

Inescapable. Ran as far as I could, as fast as I could. Still I got sucked back in. Still I return to start. Still here, still stuck, still cuffed. Like glue it sticks, grimy, sweaty and pungent.

I need to find escape, to cleanse myself, I have to go.