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| "My victories, failures, and mishaps were all on display..." |
18th November, 21.20pm.
Haven't quite changed since the weekend.
My brush lies under my desk, beckoning to me. If I listen, I can almost hear it calling to me, a seductive melody piercing through the cacophony of dissenters and free-loaders.
I know they're laughing at me, pointing and jeering behind my back - but I find it hard to care anymore.
I have control now. And they can't take it away now.
Time to begin my painting - the blade my brush, my flesh the canvas.
Shallow cuts this time - as deep and thought-provoking as most people I associate with (i.e. not very). The brush slides seamlessly across my skin, never piercing too deep, yet making sure to at least leave some form of a mark. My new strokes are a stark contrast with the old, congealed cuts - past reminders of a shoddy, lackluster work. These ones are nearly invisible - it takes a keen eye to spot these.
For minutes(or hours) I keep at it, the strokes multiplying in number, my mood lessening further and further the more I paint. I realize now that this - as self-destructive as it may be, is truly the catharsis I have missed out on; now that I have a medium by which to vent, I no longer "snap" and lash out at inquisitive minds.
Not a perfect method, but a method nonetheless. I retire to my abode, a solid night's work complete - at least until the next day.
18th November, 23.30pm.
I have to learn to control myself - my wrist screams in pain, the skin now a mild raspberry red.
Still, I am happy with my handiwork - the hard part is keeping it hidden. I will succeed; after all, who goes around looking at wrists?
20th November, 6.30pm.
I feel better today - my brush is safely tucked away, hidden from prying eyes and neer-doers.
The time has come to watch a school production - one of my classmates insisted I come along, and who was I to refuse such a person?
Thankfully, I brought a friend with me - one of the few who don't talk behind my back, yet she shares the same nihilistic outlook on life; it is odd to find an equal here in this town.
For the hour I sat down to watch this show, I took the time to look back on my life here in secondary school.
My victories, failures, and mishaps were all on display, and even now, I still regret many of things I've done. The friends I've lost(one in particular) still beckon to me in my mind, and I try ever so hard to dispel such nostalgia, but I cannot - I fear it is much a part of me as I am of it.
I wonder; what if things had gone differently?
What if I was more sensible in the past, and voiced my opinions instead of staying shut?
I dispel such thoughts, and look to the future for help. Where once a bright light stood, now stands an abyss - as dark and as beckoning as those whose skirts are shorter than their intellect.
My friend sits to my left, and she still looks as beautiful as ever - with the face of an angel, I still find it hard to believe that she hates everyone and everything - but alas, such is the way of the nihilst.
We watch the show in shared silence, but I am in a world of own, glimpsing what could have happened, what should have happened, and perhaps what will happen - all these possibilities flash before me, only to disappear as quickly, lost to the annals of the mind.
I'm glad I wore a long-sleeved shirt; my canvas is incomplete, and I'd rather no-one knew of my twisted past-time right now. Not until I find some trust - the trust I did have has been eroded to the point where paranoia dominates my instincts. I bottle my issues up, and self-harm is my release, my stress-breaker.
My heart lightens and the fog clears, if only for a moment. I know it is painful, but at least I know I can feel something.
I'm not stopping; not for my friends, not for my peers, and not for anyone.
I have control, and they won't take it. They won't.
My heart lightens, the fog now clears
I paint in silence, and then the pain sears
Into my being, gnawing at my core
The heart palpitates, my wrist lies sore
The brush hums, and my flesh screams
Thoughts of misery, usually reserved for my dreams
Penetrate my mind, my soul and my very being
Even now, I cannot believe what I am seeing
A dark winding road, a figure clad in white
Two paths before me, a chance to do what is right
Walk down the unknown, or chase pleasures of old?
The latter choice may as well have been fool's gold
The past beckons, cries, pleads for me to go
I rush down the path of old, but only the heart does know
Of the lies, the tears and broken promises this journey contained
I have no control of the past - what is there to be gained?
Source of "stress" image: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Stress-213867670
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