Compliments or Wasted Words

I feel like I am on the edge of nothingness. I am walking a razors edge somewhere between happiness and emptiness. Every time I close my eyes it feels as though a crushing weight is pressed upon me, driving me down into the softened earth, just waiting devilishly to swallow me up. I can no longer tell what is real and what is imagined. My mind plays cruel tricks on me, knowing I won't be able to decipher the code in time. Tick, tick, tick, unrelenting. "Your weirdness is beautiful," I keep hearing in my head. "Your weirdness is beautiful." My eyes begin to soak the more I repeat it. "Your weirdness is beautiful." Can a whole life be lived on those words alone? Pins and needles cascade down my back and up again to my neck, finally settling along my throat. The scent of sandalwood lingers in my olfactory senses. Sandalwood, why sandalwood? Some moody and mysteriously romantic aroma. I am a fuck-up. I feel like I always know what they right thing is at the time, but it never pans out for some reason. Am I really living my entire life in my head? With no real touchstone to the external world? How can I misread every God-damned situation? I want to just drift, drift down the river with the current, but I can't seem to stop fighting it, plunging my face underwater, struggling, the other direction. The problem must lie with me, I am coming to realize. Cognitive dissonance is an easy defense mechanism to employ. Another line has been playing over and over in my head. "Try finding someone to put up with your shit." I am just a body. That's all I am worth, but I put it on my self. In some twisted, depraved self-fulfilling prophecy. I have a ridiculous amalgamation of every neuroses ever coined. But writer's are supposed to have neuroses, right? That's where all their brilliant pain comes from. But at least they are smart enough to turn to the bottle for a brief, albeit temporary relief. Not me, I hold on to my sorrow, clutching it close to my chest like a child with a favorite toy. Sadomasochistic; I wallow in it. I let the pain wash over me. It feels creepily good to let the black tears run down my face, leaving me looking on the outside what I feel on the inside. Dirty and battered. Playing with fire, playing with fire, playing with fire, or utter complacency. Those are my only paths. Up for days at a time, then crashing for twelve-plus hours. How long can I sustain this mental upheaval? My problem is, perhaps I am looking for salvation instead of happiness. Emotional polarization hasn't worked, neither has my foray into middle-of-the-road-ness. There really aren't any choices left. Except that final choice. I begin to run my hand over the underside of my forearm, smoothing back and forth. It would feel so good to have that internal pain realized, just for a second. Sandalwood, more sandalwood. Jagged, pointy teeth, dulled with age, a matte silver-gray, biting into my flesh, the warm sensation accompanying the burning desires of my heart. Flashes of red against a porcelain backdrop, the contrast beautiful in the dim morning light. At last, maybe a little real feeling. Something I can honestly identify with, something that is all my own; no one can take it from me. All of this bubbling and churning just under the surface. It is like a window into my subconscious. If you want to see the real me, well, here it is, fuckers. My soul is just oozing out crimson for all the world to witness if they would only lift their heads. Idealistically I thought of myself as some carved, multi-faceted ruby or sapphire, polished and tumbled to a high shine, but now I think I am more a black, contorted volcanic rock, created by the molten hot fires of the earth's core, an offshoot of the most intensely burning passion of the world. Filled with thousands of crevices, alcoves and holes to be discovered; something to get lost in. Dark and arcane, I leave the tiniest bit of black residue upon your skin. The only person that could handle me, wouldn't be afraid to get their hands dirty. Rough on the surface, but light and ethereal in those many alcoves. Pocked with holes, but rich in depth. Never vapid or vacuous, even for a moment. I purport to live my life honestly, but I am too scared to not deflect my feelings, using my sexuality for barbed-wire encasing my heart. I have too much insight into my inner workings, sometimes I wish I could be part of that 85%. My thoughts are beginning to recede back into their murky depths, as the serotonin is naturally released, to erupt another day. I'm out of ideas.