Caution: The following is emotional and pessimistic. But I did use asterisks to dull the sharpness of the profanity. Happy reading.
"This may come as a relief to you ... you will always be alone. Crowded rooms, busy streets, it doesn't matter. Your solitude will be with you always. You will wake up alone mornings of all four seasons and go to sleep the same way." - Henry Rollins, Solipsist, pg. 45
We say life is too short. We lay in bed and wish it wasn't so long. Life ticks by. Every second is agonizing. There is no solace, there is no escape. There is only slow pain. Eventually you will die. Then, maybe, you will be free. Until then you will suffer. Other people will laugh at you. You will hide in dark corners and they will laugh, you will cry and they will laugh. You will turn to show them their ugliness and what it has created. They will laugh. There is them and there is you. You are an outsider, an oddball. They find humor and entertainment in life. You find pain and loneliness. They have dates and sex. You have pain and loneliness. They have happiness and hope. You have pain and loneliness. You don't understand why. You try to be like them. But it makes you sick, or they reject you. You aren't like them. You're an outsider. An oddball. At night while they're F***ing, you're home alone thinking about death. You count the serated edges on your pocket knife and wonder if that's how many more days you should live. You don't want to die. But physical pain, an escape from emotional pain would be wonderful. You think of the movie Fight Club. The pain kills the mundacity. Makes you a new person.
But you aren't a new person. You're the same person. Alone in your room. Only your MCR records to keep you company. Not the Danger Days Sh*t, but the Bullets debut sh*t. Your heart bleeds. Figuratively of course. When you cry you hate yourself. We cry because we want someone. It's psychological fact. We're reaching out for help. Like we did when we were babies. So when I cry, I hate myself. I don't want to need anyone. I don't think anyone would come. Just sit in a corner and cry. At that moment you remember all the pictures of emo kids against walls or in corners online. I hate myself more. Now I feel like a cliche. What about me is real? Is any of it real? I dry my tears. I look around. I'm alone. No one heard me cry. No one came. I turn up the music and lay in bed. I think about love I've lost and love I'll never have. I just lay there. I know I'm a nobody. All my accomplishments mean nothing to me.
I'm a stranger in my skin. I look in the mirror and wonder who that is looking back at me. We're acquainted. We've stared at each other for years. But I don't know him. He doesn't know me. From time to time I'll ask him if he'd go away. He always responds with the same favor. Neither of us ever do. We always stay. We don't like it. But we're acclimated to one another. How does one measure a friend?
- Alexander Thrasher