11180 visits since 03/07/01 -=Mail/MSN=- sprained_soul@hotmail.com -=Featured Link=- Listening to 11.975hz - The official webcomic of #a!. 09/30/06 Cocktail Time Kill. 12/11/03 Conveyerbelt dreamscape. 09/24/03 Studded leather Envy. 06/26/03 Your very own anything. 02/11/03 I am part Hamlet, part eunuch. 11/17/02 I liked you better when I didn't know you. 10/13/02 No one likes you and you're going to lose. 09/13/02 I'd sell my soul for a Klondike Bar. 09/12/02 From lonely to only. 06/14/02 Spoonfulls of sidewalk wisdom. 05/11/02 Spontaneous human combustion on a bus. 03/24/02 We are all there is now. 03/18/02 Know what I'm talking about? 03/11/02 I wonder what it's like to be dead. 03/07/02 Lights off, Insanity on.			I wonder what it's like to be dead     I can't talk to people like you can. I see how happy they look most the time, scurrying around like conquesting ants following the good ol' pheramone trail. They seem so sure, practiced in everything they do, percise and calculated with each of their words, always knowing the right to time smile,nod or laugh. Of course they don't look at me the same way. They wonder what atrocities have fallen on me to produce such a clumbsy rage and iron-wrought disassociation. I can walk by their depthless eyes and not flinch like I used to. They can't corner me anymore because I've learned in my lifetime that they'll only play with you for so long before they take their ball and go home. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be so perfectly matched with one of them, to be so co-symbiotic with one of them that their abscense would double me over in pain. I wonder what those long lonely night I volunteered my isolation would be like with on of them around me, shadowing me. I wonder if there is a single one of them out there that would stop me from pushing myself away from them and then self-destructing like I always do. They don't realize that behind the bullshit, my need to destroy myself is stronger than eons and eons of self-preservationist instinct. My dedication to this is almost instinctual in itself, like a coyote chewing off it's leg to get out of a trap. Imagine being locked on the other side of the glass wall, looking in - and then finally getting to see what it's like to be inside. You get adjusted but you're scared, everything doesn't flow from you like it does from them, you're still part of 'them' but you just can't emulate it correctly. Inside your head you read through their words twice, scanning it for the message you really hope is there, 'you're not one of us...Go away'. I'll never feel completly comfortable around people, I'm not part of their world. I constantly wonder how they can live lies but not get any of the bullshit on them, like actors some kind of dramatic improv. I think all you really need to make it(be that 'make it big' or 'make it through alive')in this world is masochism and a complete lack of ethics. Loveing to be hurt and having no problem hurting them in return, it'll get you through if you don't mind getting a little dirt in you. There must be some kind of hand-out I missed, perhaps one day I was sick in high school, and they passed out a guideline on how to fit in or at least how to take a little bit of comfort in being different. These things people take with such picturesque ease must be some kind of coping skill I never quite acquired and will never gain. I don't know if they somehow managed to distance their feelings from themselves so well that nothing you can say, nothing you could ever do would make the slightest dent in their dissasociated armor. Every time I see people hurt, I see them bounce back, eager and salivating for more of the same experiences, never quite realizing that they don't have to keep showing up for the beatings if they don't want to. The only explanation I can find for it is that I am some kind of mental and emotional three-legged chair, somehow able to support the weight of anyone putting pressure on me but someone is always going to lean the wrong way and bring my complete world down with them. Unfortuneatly, no one takes the time to pick me back up though they're at least decent enough to sweep me into the corner with all the other broken things...I wouldn't want to get in anyone's ways, you know? I'm sure, at some level, everyone feels like they're just not really supposed to be on this world, like the thoughts they have are products of some alien upbringing. Eventually they grow out of that awkward pupae stage and join the rest of the world with it's high fives and after work drinks but for people like me, we know only the warmth that solitude affords. We slave and sweat to step in line, to get with the program, to be liked and allow ourselves to be liked. I think it's all for nothing really, I'll never let myself slip around you and your kind, I'll never let you make me feel guilty for being nothing like you and I'll never be able to understand how you live your day-to-day with such passion and righteous beleif in your superiority. I won't let your opinions become my morals. I won't stop hating myself for wanting to be around you.