Sours · @ModaIBeat
19th Oct 2016 from TwitLonger
I wrote another thing. Sorry for the large paragraphs, I'm terrible with that.
Lately my mind has been in a spiral - circling and rolling downwards towards a vile pit of uncertainty and insecurity, embedding itself deeper and deeper into the tar of self-doubt. Despite my wanting to create, to write, to become and perform as a productive human being, ghosts and wraiths wail into my ears, halting all sense of progress and crushing my motivation to crumbled dust as I simply sit and stare at a blank screen, wondering and wanting, waiting for a thought or idea to pop into my head as if it was that simple. Despite the vigilant efforts of my inner demons, I occasionally come to a revelation - a motivation to write, an idea for a story or a topic to share my opinion on, but those too are cut into shattered pieces and spread across the pit, this time by my own criticisms. I think to myself that these ideas and stories are hardly original, nor interesting. Someone, with out a doubt in the world, has done or will do whatever I've thought of in a more detailed, efficient and likable way. Thus, my self-destructive spiral continues down into the abyss, and I sink further and further into the thick tar as it slowly envelops my body.
The thick bile floods into my mouth, forcing its way into and down my throat to fill my lungs, suffocating me as I grow numb to the cold and bitter taste, growing used to it, familiar enough to consider it a regular and expected feeling. As my heart becomes encased in the cold grip of darkness, all I think is that this is what I deserve, and what I will always feel. I begin to need this feeling, wanting it and demanding it until all I can do is sit and wallow and create my own tar to cover myself in, creating a swamp of disgusting tar, myself being the only resident to roam in it's banks, alone despite the many voice and hands reaching in to pull out and see this strange creature that chooses to remain and suffer in it's personal abyss. Those hands and voices offer so much assistance, so much support and love yet I cannot stand it. I cannot stand the feeling of having assistance, I cannot stand the feeling of getting help, or of speaking of these insecurities. Some of those voices ring out more aggressively than others, demanding an explanation for the tar that I've spread around me, demanding they grab their hands and let them pull me out. When I fulfil their demands and speak to them, I can hear the sounds of relief in their voices, their hands tightening around my own as I grab on and let them pull me out. Yet, these explanations are only the barest of what I feel, and the hands I offer are only false hands, sticking out to distract and lead away the people that are doing nothing more but offering to help me in my time of need. I lie to these people. Giving them only the thinnest, lightest bits of tar I can give and hogging the true bile to myself, further gathering and encasing myself within the true toxic fluid with more aggressive and obsessive vigor, as if the world and these people were trying to steal it for themselves. I needed it more, I wanted it more, and I gave myself more, until I believed to have had enough but by then the walls had grown thick and hard - Stone like, impossible to pierce through with anything within my ability.
In a panic, I call out to anyone, anything begging and pleading for assistance. Desperately crying out for someone to come and break down these walls, as I continue to claw away at the slick casing that slowly begins to suffocate me again - though this time the pain is sharper, heavier and hotter than the pain I felt before, stinging a reminder into my brain, a note stating over and over that I was the one that put myself in this block. I was the one that wanted to so desperately hog this vile matter to myself, and so I did. Now I live with the home I created, resting my feet upon the cold stone as my voice soon gives out, my vocal cords shredding and tearing with the strain I put on them until there is nothing left and I am left screaming silently at the black walls surrounding me. They grow thicker and hotter as letter embed themselves into my new home, slowly forming words, sentences, phrases. The same phrase repeats itself across all four of the walls that tightly close around me, taunting me and laughing away as I slow my efforts to escape, slumping down onto the floor and letting the words slowly register in my mind - "You put yourself here. This is what you made, and this is where you will stay." My mind goes blank, my body goes still. My throat tightens and my face burns hotter and hotter as I let the words turn into voices, repeating over and over, until I am suddenly shot back into reality. There I sit in my rickety, creaking chair, surrounded by brown walls, staring at a blank screen and a blinking, single line, waiting and waiting to create companions to accompany it on the white space that is its home.
Music that I barely register blares into my ears, serving as mere white noise than actual motivation as the silence of the real world is enough to drive me even more mad than I already am. My fingers shake and my breathing grows hot and shivering as I think to myself, remembering the spiral, the pit, the swamp, the walls. Would I dare describe that place? Would letters and words, sentences and paragraphs even be able to apply put such a vile spot in my mind? I can already feel more of the black liquid seeping out of my fingertips and onto my desk, dripping down onto the floor where the tar pools around my feet, my toes already becoming fully enveloped. Slowly I press one finger down on a tiny, tar-soaked button, followed by another, and another. More and more fingers fall onto the keys in front of me, rapidly tapping away, pushing and moving the tar out of my site, wiping it away slowly as the blinking line on the screen glides from one side to the other, painting tiny black letters onto the white canvas. Soon after, the blank screen is no longer a blank screen - words and descriptions of my self-made despair filling it more and more, somehow causing a feeling of complete ease and comfort to my mind as I begin to slow down, the lust and hunger within my finger tips slowly becoming stated. The black tar hardens and crumbles away, the small particles getting carried off into the air by the wind that comforts and cools my body. With a steady inhale, my body feels more and more free as the seconds pass - my throat opens up, allowing my lungs to clear. The black casing around my heart cracks and thaws, melts and drips away and for the first time in ages, I can feel a steady, calming beat resonate from my body. The drum of my chest fills my hears, fills my mind and I let the beat drift me away, carrying me off to the land of the unconscious.