FUCK ME DEAD HEAD. Episode Three of An Abstract Ideal.

Depression is but a menagerie of countless doubts successfully augmenting one’s will to not want to accept. Leeching the hope out of every little tiny step forward until the afflicted finally stops moving and instead concentrates on the emptiness of what they are left with.

The dark voice in the back of their mind starts to whisper. And the options they place before us quickly become more and more certifiable with every grim day that we barely manage to trudge through. What we would normally shrug off and ignore we start to manifest reasons to why we should embrace it.

Until we blink our eyes and find ourselves staring down the barrel of a gun. The bubbling scarlet laughter pouring out through wicked smiles we’ve emblazoned upon our wrists. Our every nerve tingling with the anticipation of what shall occur within the course of the next five minutes.

The lasting pain of our memories is a malevolent demon. Fierce and fickle. No one can escape the past. Nor can they escape the lasting imprint they leave upon our minds. Until our dying days we’ll be thinking back. Quoting incidents word for word. Imagining the countless retorts and responses we would have said had we been given the time and the poise to aptly dodge our weakest moments.

Whether we let our demons devour us. Or stand up and vanquish them. The memory of them will remain with us forever. And for some of us. Forever is too long to deal with the pain we’ve been unjustly dealt for our entire lives.

Sometimes the hardest way out is the easiest to reach. And for those who’ve accepted this freedom. They’ll be eternally spurned by those they’ve left behind. And alienated are those who mention the intentions and the means.

Things will not get better. Giving life another five months will not change the fact that sometimes the torment of one’s mind runs deeper than what most can see and what most would even want to accept. The echoing responses from monochrome lips will rarely do little albeit numb the fact that whilst you can make the pain ebb for a day, the devil’s open arms forever beckon.

I won’t cry for help. The very mention of it sparks a plethora of question marks inside my skull. I don’t know how. And to ask for it implies weakness. And to imply weakness is to reveal my inadequacy to properly compose myself on a day to day basis. Sparking concern in the eyes of all those close to me.

Never will I be viewed as sane again. For always will the people who know whisper of how I am troubled. And that only leads to mindless gossip that in turn evolves into wicked intentions to purge the problem. And whilst that can be an enjoyable interaction with the true faces of those who care, it only leads to the common revelation that no one wants to deal with a vagrant.

FUCK ME DEAD HEAD. Episode Two of An Abstract Ideal.

A kaleidoscope of shattered memories somehow managing to link back to everything I’ve been struggling to stay away from. It’s a constant reminder of just how stupid I am compared to the average fuck with a sense of purpose.

I lack the urge to commit to a particular lifestyle. To trace the footsteps laid bare by the success of many others who willingly followed at the very cost of imagination and originality. Throwing away the chance to be peculiar without a second thought.

I find it curious. Damning. Is it really I who is the one lacking the ability to succeed because I’d much rather break the mold than to conform to it? My brain struggles to sort out a plausible reason whilst my heart stands proudly within the confines of my own recreated freedom.

The world frowns upon individuality. Yet it throws its arms out on television and roars the trumpets of setting your own path and embracing the flaws that divide you. While slowly driving the jagged edges of discrimination’s crooked blade in between your shoulders.

All the while smiling and promising a better tomorrow. The undertow of one’s need to be noticed a visceral scar against how one should truly accept the world as the burnt remnants of possibilities and dreams it used to wave upon the face of its many colorful flags.

We cling to the dregs of hope with the intentions of one day prying open the doors to an ephemeral heaven that’s talked about in books and preached about in churches. A certainty burrowed deep within our stubborn minds that if we can break away from what it is that makes us human, we can find the key to being perfect.

And we commercialize it. Selling it in mass quantities at every major retailer all across the world. Promising a better tomorrow for our sacrifices today. Giving us a guilt free conscience to commit the sins that would kill us with the promise of being repaid thrice over in the afterlife.

While the evil grins that rip open the faces of all those whose pockets slowly bulge with the cash and pride of sheep keep widening. They’ve found the secret to eternal wealth and power. Hidden within the souls of all the hopeless and the gullible. Exploit the fear of not knowing. Reap the benefits of false promises.

So yes I refuse to conform. To make the triumphs and failures of my life the success and faults of someone else. I would much rather feel proud for the things I’ve done, and hurt for the things I’ve done wrong, than to put that weight upon an imaginative figurehead with green eyes and a silver tongue.

FUCK ME DEAD HEAD. An abstract experiment of humanity's damnation.

This is not a story. Not some tale spun from bent facts. This is just an attempt at one’s true unheard confessions. My life. The world as I see it placed before foreign eyes. My views untainted by the temperamental society for which I am forced to take part in. Who’s rules I am mercilessly at odds with.

I am young. Naïve. Left alone to face life without a clue or owner’s manual. A maverick personality bleeding through a shy mask with a chivalrous smile. Caught up in a life I believe so unfair yet miraculous in and of itself.

I wish I was somebody else. The hand that fate had dealt me a simple flush to god’s full house. A mind consistently caught in a tumultuous turmoil that never seems to let up. Craving the shelter hidden within the eye of the storm.

My hopes and dreams are devoid of normalcy. The spark of suicide. The idea of something better. I look at what I’ve been given. What I’ve been blessed with. And yet I still feel as though I’ve only ever been compensated for not being given what I’ve always wished I had been given.

Yet with today’s views upon existence. A brilliant mirage of freedoms barred beneath fascism and the everyman’s superiority complex. Jaded am I to dream of a world where the true expression of one’s self isn’t damned and crucified under the banner of political correctness and common decency.

I’ve struggled to give all that I could give. To lend a giving hand without casting a single thought towards what I’m never going to receive in return. The gold standard laid by the righteous to see good in the wicked. And hope within the broken.

Yet I can’t help but glance at the possibilities. The bum I helped with a handful of change. What’s stopping him from cornering me in an alley and bleeding me for the rest I’m worth? I’m examining every instant of my life in where I’m doing the common good that seems to go unnoticed in the everyday and wondering why I’m surprised when I quickly find myself in undesirable situations that could have easily been avoided with a simple ignorance.

But now that would be frowned upon. The world is so concentrated on expecting the community to treat another as equals, whilst stabbing at the hindquarters of rage and sin. They set the example by slaughtering mass quantities of fellow human beings in the name of some righteous crusade. Damning many others with racist labels and propaganda, adding fuel to the raging fire that they pretend to quell with a self-righteous war that only succeeds in sterilizing a nation.

And I’m forced to watch with hopeful eyes as many of my fellow species raises their arms in a salute towards a nightmare we created. The praise we bellow louder than the drowning screams of those we’ve tread upon. Stomping out the last of their beliefs beneath a chant of God Bless America.

And yet we find ourselves victimized as the angry howls of those around us raise in a violent protest. We’ve placed ourselves upon a pedestal while also throwing everyone else to the ground to dwell in the dirt and broken promises we pelt down at them.

I stand here wondering just how I’m supposed to lend a hand to something that will most probably stab me the second they stop to hear my opposing views on the many topics we seem to cherish with a fanatic edge.

Who am I to face a nation who’s so centered more on their own appearance than the needs of the many? It weighs down upon my shoulders with such a strength that I can understand why the entire world seems to bow at their feet while those who can still manage to stand quickly have their feet swept out from beneath them...

Monologue of Walker & Parish,

"Tell me, what exactly do you see everytime you look in the mirror?"

"I see a world long drenched in blood. It's people rotted by a thousand years of neglect and abuse. I see everything that will be, an effigy of that which I do today. Hopeless. Heartbroken. A morose attempt at communication long lost in translation. A Distorted dream of life and love. Where all is opposite each other."

"Now why would it be that you see that?"

"I see it because it is my fate. The luckless bastard unfortunate enough to see everything in it's proper light. Too old to care. Too young to forget. I'm trapped in this view where I cannot help but notice. I cannot help but look again. Too curious. Much too curious."
"And how would you go about making it stop?"

"With suicide. With murder. With the confiscation of my heart and soul. The seeds that were sown within this abstract rotted mind, where once were little nothings whispering chalantly in my head, now press again my cracking skull with screams that beg to heard. Roots extending down my spine and feeding into my bones. I need to remove the head. The face that haunts my dreams. The shadow of a kiss that teases split lips."

"Do you want it to stop?"

"Yes. I mean no. I mean maybe. I don't know. I want to cut me free and spread wings free of misery. Yet still I want to dwell. To allow myself to be raped by this if it means she'll return."

"She?"

"Yes. The one I want to kill. The one I want to feel. The one who fills my heart with dread. My stomach with butterflies. Her eyes the path towards my own salvation. Yet her inhibitions the poison that corrodes my goals."

"Yet why do you persist?"

"Because through all my wisdom I'm still an idiot. Fueled by pride of self and the desire to not die alone. For all the flaws that strive within my existence. I'm still fucking human."

Monologue of Faybel,

I lay beneath these crushing stars with naught but a wish to be wanted again. To not have to stare down the cold steel barrel of isolation once more, but to be held within your protective grace with nothing but time my only enemy.

For so long I awoke alone in this cold prison cell without you to hold close and allow your warmth to cut away the wicked tendrils of depravity that assail me from every front. But back then... The promise of one day returning you to your proper place by my side remained a vital spark that vaporized the pain that seeped into these aching bones.

Now that promise has long since faded away into the darkness. My outstretched fingers straining to brush the surface of your pearlescent skin. But to no avail. They're only figments teasing me through countless nightmares disguised as hopeful dreams. My eyes blinking through the grim facade as I awake to this dimming world.

I lack the vision, the skill to proceed. To carve myself a new life that's devoid of my tears.Instead I'm met with my own screams. the very essence of my pain distorting the sound and tearing violently at my vocal cords like some feral animal. Causing me to only bleed more, through heart and soul to tongue and mind.

My precious desolation... you know not of the traces you've left behind that ensnare my willing body. Encumbering me beneath a thousand pleading words. Betwixt your lack of reason. I yearn to whisk you away once more, to sweep you up into my arms and know that you are mine. That everything that has passed was only a haunted dream born from fever and lack of sleep.

I write because I have to. To pour these words spilt from torn lips in an attempt to prolong the inevitable. These words a million different i love you's torn asunder through rage and pride, depression and lust. Quickly I see every word fray and fall to pieces from lack of composure and mental control. This needle tongue stitching together words of increasingly erratic quality. The need to break down into unintelligable sobs a constant threat.

You may never understand the full depth of how you made me yours. Of just how well you brought me back to life.I can just hope one day in the future, you decide to glance back, a moment away from your perfect life...

And you catch a glimpse of just how far I've fallen.

blah blah blah

I've been gone for much too long.
Missing from a role I've long since accepted.
Where did my mind go?
Did I happen to get lost in the lies I tend to place before my eyes?
Heh, I'm pretty sure my vacation left an imprint hard to miss.
But I've returned.
My muse is hissing new ideas into this skull.
And I'd be an idiot to ignore them.
So open your eyes and cast that yawn to the side.
I've new tales to spin for you.
New realities to introduce.
Kiss your adopted sanity goodbye.
Your verbal lover is back.