Goodnight, Good Night

It is difficult t write a paradise when all th superficial indications are that you ought t write an apocalypse. We have t prefer real hell t an imaginary paradise, don't we?

They say when you think of something that once hurt you and don't cry over it any longer, it means you've been healed. But do we ever heal from certain thoughts that inevitably seize our minds every other day? We're all slaves t our emotions, and emotions t our thoughts. I never used t understand how it was possible t fall t mental insanity. Our thoughts are ours t control, but many a times we're leaded ashtray by th monsters that win. Th ones inside our heads. They creep up t you in th dead of night, sleepless not from th monsters under your bed, but th ones in your head. No longer sitting by your night light, inevitably replaying th scenes so vivid from a horror film. For now it has become darkness, no light can save you from diving into th crevices of an overworked mind, engulfing your sanity and dwelling in all th ruins. Listen t th whispers that curl into your head at night. T think superficiality could step in as an anesthetic, but it soon turns into poison. By then, it's too late because you are mainlining it right now. Straight into your soul. It rots you and you can't stop.

And who could love you for being out of your mind, or too in it. How would you love yourself? Doubts and fears overflow from th windows t your soul, and uncertainty take hold of your being. But what if someday you woke up and your life had been a dream, and you're a completely different person living a different life in a different world. There's no more anger left. Th things that eat you never really happened, those bad memories are gone. Who'd choose that over waking up each day so susceptible t th world? I wouldn't. But where's th line between reality and imagination? What if bad memories were just thoughts that never happened. Could we live a lie, believing certain things never really happened? Nobody would know, a secret. One similar t heavy breathing, hands shaking, body trembling, sobs caught in your chest, tears welling. You feel a pit in your stomach forming, you're hunched over, hugging yourself tightly because it's hard t breathe. So many emotions are hitting you and you don't know how t deal w them, but you carry on. You break down any time you're alone. But that, it's your secret.

Perfection is a foreign language. Noone is but we choose t see ourselves as th only victim t that word. And even if we do believe otherwise, we choose not t see that.

Loss for th right words, for th right emotions and th connection between my sentences. But whatever. I'm tired.