He knew what he had to do. ..He had to **** himself.
He had to put an end to everything he now was
in exchange for becoming everything he had avoided being his entire life.
He wanted to break all of his brushes in half. He wanted to snap the necks of all his pencils and pens, and tear up any paper in sight. He wanted to take the canvas that sit before him and slam it on the ground. He wanted to see the fabric rip, and hear the wood holding it all together crack. He was infuriated, like a child. He was infuriated that he was infuriated. He hated himself for not being able to hold it all together on the inside. He wanted to take it out ..on anything ..on everything.
But he knew what he had to do... It did not matter if it was right or wrong. That kind of **** hardly matters, he had learned. At least not in the sense he had believed. It was all so subjective. Everything was so foggy.
But he knew what he had to do. ..He had to make a decision.
He whispered the sword in his chest, and went to sleep. He thought of nothing, but good things.
He would rise the next day, revived, as someone new.
A broken heart, exposed. Like an egg, hatched.
He would rise the phoenix he knew himself to be.
Or else ..he would truly burn ..fry..
in all the hellfire
he had started.
I don't know what notes to write. I don't know what to write in general. I miss my friend. I miss you, dost. I feel like I was tapped into something extraordinary. But now I feel disconnected beyond words. I don't know how I got to this place. I just know I have to get out. I need to feel what I felt with you again. I need magic in my life.