(by Stolen w-heels)
(via copiouscocaine)
the weekender (an excerpt)
I want to burn the notes. I want to burn the ugly thoughts as if burning the words she’s written down will make the original thoughts – the ones in her head – disappear at the same time. As if the existence of that ink and that paper somehow correlates to whatever disease it is that’s taken her over. I want to snatch the ugly words she’s said from the air and hide them somewhere where she’ll never find them again. I want to make her better but I think her sickness is catching: I think its spread to me because I find myself angry and hateful all the time. Most of all, I find myself hollow.
When did this occur? Why are we so empty, the two of us? Is it our longing to matter combined with the fact that, as individual units, we are useless? Or is it something else? Something far more sinister afoot, taking the entire world by storm? Because I look at the faces I pass in my car, of people walking and driving by, and I see the same helplessness and appetite for destruction in their eyes.
We use humanity as a word to describe compassion and care but neither word describes the majority of the human population. It seems to me that humanity is an insult, dragging the great into line with the small and serving to remind them that they are human; they are just like the rest of us, and they will never escape the gossamer lines that tie them to our despicable league.
That night I go to bed feeling like my eyeballs will pop but I don’t shed a tear. The feeling of cloying silence rips at my throat. I want to make a noise because I’ve forgotten if I can. I don’t. I just sleep, and dream of piercing heat.
(Source: mformaaary, via copiouscocaine)
