I would die for you

I awaken to find my mind either a complete blur, a fuzzy, foggy place, or a place of a maelstrom of thoughts, ideas, and emotions, some from the previous day, some from even before that. Electrifying anxiety, paralyzing fear, crippling doubt and depression are the orders of the day, when I fully awaken. I eat, then take my pills, to get my thoughts in some semblence of order. I go through the day, feeling trapped by problems my medications cannot control. I find myself either blaming everything and everyone else for said problems, or ripping out my own entrails as I blame myself - one extreme or another. I have visions, dreams, hopes of success, but then my depression, or whatever it is, kicks in, and wipes out those dreams, reducing me to a mess of shattered hopes and dreams. This is why I spend most of my days on tumblr, where people see me for who I am, but even there, people judge and discriminate against me, for whatever I have. On tumblr, I have friends that I roleplay out various characters with, different personalities, sometimes variations of myself take shape. Tumblr is the only place where I can seemingly have a reality in which I have control. The Internet is my portal to reality, my line of defense against what could be described as agoraphobia. But I still desire the company of people my own age, physically, rather than electronically, but I do not have the same interests of most of them, and am scared to death of doing so. The very thought of meeting a large group, or even an individual, sends me into a panic attack-like state, then I fall quickly into a state of depression because of that. I hate myself for that anxiety, the awkwardness I have. Loathe is the correct word. This is why I hide behind a computer screen. It may not be perfect, but I find it easier to interact online. I do not know how to translate how my characters act to my own actions, as some have suggested for me to do. I have been told that I need to choose to get out of this hole in which I am trapped. It is a struggle every day to even get enough energy to care, much less try to get out of the hole. The only way out is by climbing a steep cliff, covered by snow and ice, cut by the howling, bone-chilling wind, with only two hooks, in my hands, to claw my way out, fighting the falling snow and ice, occasional rock and hail, sleet too. There seems to be no place to make a camp, where I may rest, only the long, arduous, grueling climb, my vertical trek, my seemingly Sisyphean task that awaits me. A choice that may seemingly **** me. People have suggested that I turn to the supernatural, but that is a fool’s bet, a folly of hope, a wish of the people who build their castles in the sky.

??

It's year 2050
Every human was born with a symbol etched onto their skin.
you may be asking what do the symbols represent?

Each symbol is an indicator of your inevitable death.
I am Cole Adams and I've been an outcast my entire life
and its sad since I am merely 17 years old.

My symbol has a gun and its very uncommon especially since
I've never seen a red gun symbol before, which is confusing.
We grow up accepting our death and understanding it can be horrible, or for instance
if your symbol is a bed, you die in our sleep.

The people in my school who have the bed symbol are 'popular'
meanwhile loners like me who have the not so popular gun symbol OR symbol containing
a lightning bult. Its the rare ones like us who are subjected to being laughed at, which I don't understand.

Anyway I am just writing my story to explain my life.

I was 15 years old and I had fallen madly in love with a nymphet gorgeous girl, the stained pink dye in her hair with her chipped black nails struck me, I never thought to fall for a girl quite as unique as her.

I'm simple, brown hair brown eyes 5'7 and I never thought she would fall for me, but yet, she did.
We had a beautiful teenage love. We lost our virginity to each other, and in our world its not common to lose it early, just because our deaths could happen anytime.

Her symbol was the cancer zodiac sign, and it did mean the illness. It was uncommon for a girl with such a popular symbol to fall for a boy like me, but she loved me anyway. Her dark empty eyes glowed when she would look at me, she made me forget about my symbol, my thoughts would be gone around her. I loved her.

10 months in and she began to be distant, she didn't kiss my cheek and ruffle my hair. She didn't shoot off love signals as she once did. Her touch felt unknown. She fell for another person, she loved him like i've never seen before.

I never would of thought my symbol meant suicide, but it did.
With my last breath I still loved her, I loved her forever.
This is my suicide note/ story of my life.
I died on April 10th, 2051.

Unknown

You injected yourself inside my veins
your love swims along with the flowing blood
get the **** out I yelled

A razor against my wrist in hopes to try
and get every last ounce of you out of me

.

I clearly understood that if I could touch the minds of people through my writings, my life is well worth living, see, writing is my only passion in which I realize there is no boundaries, and nobody can take writing away from me, thousands of pages within my room unseen by any eyes but mine, untouched by anybody’s finger tips, but mine, and untouched from anybody’s hearts but mine, because I’m scared it wouldn’t touch their heart at all.

In the vast open spaces between my bones and skin, the empty rattle of where my heart once superimpose is where I shall love you for eternity.

The echos of past love never fail to visit me.

The friction between the miles on the bed was were once layer haunt me, and burns my flesh to even ponder over the idea of sleeping on your side.

I shall love you in the highest light. come gather along, wary over me.
Evil is injected in my veins.

I purposely find that the greatest love ever, is the love that ruins you for the rest of your life.

The love that merely makes you have a lump in your throat at the sound of a song you and your late lover shared.
It's the type of love, if you can even fathom calling it love;

that makes life worth wild. That type of love brings us the thrill of life, without that certain almost seeming everlasting pain, life is perhaps dull, without color if you will.

It's the love which leaves battle scars, and beyond that, it brings creativity and hope.
Nobody writes about that part, because they feel as if they didn't have to write anymore, after the horrid is over.

I desire to send you a good omen as I pass.