There's a darkness that dwells within me, like all of us, except mine revels in finding the subtle ways to ****** me into its way of thinking.
Trapping me like an insect in amber in patterns of self loathing and despair.
It comes upon me slowly, seeing in through the cracks in my facade that I present to the Grand Masquerade we call society, some days. Others it strikes like lightning from a clear, cloudless sky.
But, no matter how it comes to me it is always devastating, not in the least because the words are sharp and pry my soul apart, nor because I shut the world out and try to protect myself and the world from my darkness, but because I always open the door when it knocks. I can't help it, it feels like home and I hate it. The comforting despair-- it's a lie and a mockery as are the pace and respite it brings.
Even knowing all of this, I still shut myself out, withdraw and isolate because I believe I'm not good enough.
And in some ways, it's right. The crux is, I know some things I enjoy are wrong and terrible, but I can no more change them than I can ***** out the stars. I still try to be better, every day, I try to be a light in the darkness, but in days like today I'm naught but the last vestiges of a dying fire, just a few embers glowing dimly covered in hot ash waiting for more fuel to burn or the final wisps of smoke as the fire within me dies.
I woke up this morning, with a general dread and despair that I could not and cannot shake. I was hoping to find a catharsis in this piece, but all I found were still open wounds and no answers.