Inside the closed-in walls of the July that has gone,
The words were broken down, in a past without tears.
...
The edges of my memories, the far off, frozen, unreachable life.
In a crack in the mirror that no one can hold,
Seven broken doll sings silent tears of mud.
Drain the maggot’s blood in the days that will never be returned;
And pierce the eyes with a brier of a clock
That crumbled into dust within seven days.
The cruel judge records the faded letters of my life…
Only a bird with broken wings can tell the truth…
...
With light only silence...
...
Death is frozen all the way to the edge of its molecules
While the night loves eternity,
At the same time it chops down desire with a stone axe.
Drink up the pain of a brain being split open!
...
The twelve white messengers who were washed ashore
...
The mirage above the piece of paper,
The spent country made of glass,
The corpse sings with a necklace of many, many tears on its breast.
The duck’s shadow on the cliff where light has ceased to exist…
Will the blameless traveler ever tell of this story?
...
When nineteen cold moons have crossed the sky
After the day of pronouncement, and the night has passed,
The world will end with the rising of the sun.
What else can we do... other than smash the green plate...
-Kino's Journey, various parts of Book of Prophecy/Angst
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Damn Japs. Taking this and putting it through all that fancy-schmancy shit, turning my feelings into some sort of bloody joke.
I hate this. I hate you. I hate everything. I don't know why I'd been putting up a show for so long; but I just did. The curtains were set and the actor could no longer change any part of himself, but continue on with the bloody show with the mocking audience laughing at the poor actor.
I've been living a lie. A bloody lie. For such a long time. I should've let go earlier, went mad earlier. But no, I just went on, pretending I was normal, advising those who weren't ok, helping out those in need, conversing with friends who were never there with me.
I never should've done any of that should I.
I remember I talked to SZ last time about why angsting in silence was stupid. Paranoia, schizophrenia, helplessness and living a lie, those were the basic ideas. He said that I was smart about that, but what am I. I was the bloody hypocrite going through all of that in the first place wasn't I. I was the one being paranoid, living self-consciously like the actor who knows his costume is wrong but is unable to do anything about it; I knew I was the one being schizophrenic, always fearing when my other side of myself would finally show to the outer world and I would no longer be viewed as what I was once viewed as; I was the one feeling helpless, unable and unsure of what to do, trying to help when I couldn't do anything, trying to please when I could only hurt, trying to cry when I could only smile and trying to smile when I could only cry; I was the one living a lie. I was the one who was a bloody hypocrite.
I was the one who pretended that everyone was a friend to me. And I was the one who pulled the strings and made everyone a friend to me.
I go around going whee I've 5000 visitors some people care about my life. I don't even know them. For all I know you readers aren't Singaporean and instead somewhere in Java. Why should I care? 3, 20, 97, 276, 1439, 4938, what does it matter? I bet it's just some bored dude constantly refreshing just to fool me into thinking that people care about my life; I know better than that. I don't need to rely on statistics to know that no one cares for me.
I hate this. I hate having fake friends. I hate pretending to be what I'm not. I hate to be a pillar of strength when I'm burning inside-out. I hate being nice, being friendly, being a joker to those I called friends. I hate being a chairman and having authority that only made me a figurehead; I hate responsibilities placed upon me because of those so-called ideals that I bore.
No more of this. I shall break down, on my own will. Not you, not them, not him or her who will make my knees bend and my feet fall. Only I can do this to myself; none of you shall destroy me but myself. I brought this ruin upon myself; I caused myself to break.
Despair. Sadness. Crying. Hopelessness. Deception. Delusion. Desolation. Helplessness. Isolation. Stress. Pressure. Vanity. I don't care about it anymore; I've been trying to pretend that I didn't have such things for so long; now I no longer care. Come, I shall embrace you. I don't care anymore. Make me more sad, more hopeless, more stressed, more isolated, more vain, more despaired, I can't do anything anyway; I can't cry. I am but a doll masterfully weaved to convey emotion, express feelings, bring happiness and sadness to others. But what happens when the audience is left and the puppeteer is alone? The doll slinks to the floor, emotionless and empty.
I don't care; I'd rather live a life of pure despair, than live a life of fake happiness. What good is it? It's not mine. I could make everyone else happy or sad; I don't care now. It's not my emotions. Why should I care? I have manipulated you all into being my 'friends' until I myself fell to that trick, and when I finally realize, I can no longer break from guilt nor can I liberate myself.
When a bird is chained down, it can squeal all it wants, it can flap its wings all it wants, but what can it do? It can only break its wings in the process. I, bound by my emotions, what can I do? Wrestle with them, not yield to them, but what does that do? I only break my sanity in the process. It is vain. And I care not about that. My sanity has been broken long ago when I tried to wrestle and resist them; now the gears are broken and the springs are loose; the toy can no longer work and entertain the audience.
The jester goes and puts on his show, after all the world is a stage. But when the laughter is not on the jokes, instead the comedy strikes at him, he must continue, bear the pain, until they're gone or he's dead. Suppose the jester survives the day, against all will and logic, he must continue, because the next day comes and he has his pay to work for. Humanity can mock him, humanity can murder his feelings, but only when humanity has killed him can he finally rest in true peace.
Go ahead, sympathize for me. What good is sympathy? You cannot feel for the person. You force yourself to feel for him. You make your own context to understand his pain. You try and try, but all you get is an insensitive bastardization of his pain. So go on, sympathize for me; or have you already done so? It's ok; I can't feel it. After all, a puppet only gives and receives when in the presence of others. Once it is alone the puppet loses everything; passion, compassion, and life.
Don't worry about me, I know I'm not alone. The stage known as life couldn't possibly have had only one vacancy for self-conceited toys of life.
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