March 2012
4 posts
they say those who are fascinated by serial killers are interesting sort of people, at least more so than commonly speaking. wouldn’t this ultimately make serial killers the most exciting people of all? maybe that’s just coming from someone who enjoys the play of basic psychology and how impaired minds work.
but what about me? well, what about me?
i inhabit some strong force that impulses me to feel less everyday; and it comes with the dysfunctional might of not being able to classify this as growing old, or something worse. i curse at myself for committing the same neglect whereas i’m already too deep in the same familiarity to really be saying anything. a part of me loves all sorts of paraphilia like masochism, chronophilia or even...
i still chose to bless your name despite the ideas you forced into my head that exploited me to the variety of corruption. i don’t know how i’m able to recall our small conversations at random points of the day but i do, sentences and theoretical quirks that ignite my decision making. it would be pretty ordinary of me to call it a love/hate relationship but it is what it is. no...
i actually really miss writing but i’m not a good enough writer. i don’t want fictitious sympathy or anyone assuring me otherwise. i know of my potential and i know that age constitutes to this potential.. i am too young to reach it
