Self

8:23, Torn, a shiver runs through my body as I turn off my music. I am alone. I hate the inexplicable pain I feel, it’s vast emptiness frightens me, for I know not what may lay in it’s murky depths, I fear the possibility of it taking full control of me, fear the consequences of such a travesty. Yet, I simultaneously love the pain, love, the hate. Yes, I know it sounds odd but believe me its true. I have always felt that this inner turmoil has afforded me a creative luxury. A luxury that I would have almost undoubtedly gone without had it not played such a substantial role in my life, and again the dilemma builds as I might also argue that in the absence of such inner turmoil, such pain, I might have been so content, so appreciative that I may have been able to achieve a considerable amount more than I have. However, the latter is not the case. 8:59 damn it. It’s taken me half an hour to get down here, I’m weeping inside. No-one can hear me cry, see the tears streaming down my face, touch them and feel their warmth, not even I. I weep inside, the pain is unbearable and I can feel the emotion inside building up, rumbling, I yearn to channel my sadness, my pain into anger, I am, after all, a man am I not? I hold it in “pero mi Corazon sangra, Mi Corazon sangra,” and it hurts so badly I don’t think that I can, don’t think I will ever forget it.







Coming from me, you might expect cocky, expect arrogant but truth-be-told I am neither of these Sure, I firmly believe that I am intelligent, good-looking, kind, and polite, but what is wrong with that. Imagine, strong self. A self, so strong that It is uninhibited by societal weakness. A self that stands above the toxic pollution of the feeble minded majority. A self that stands tall when all others buckle, sway, and fall. A self that is myself, yourself, a strong self.