Thank you for electricity.
The ability to touch letters connected by cables and ribbons to access a small piece of happiness.
I discovered music through electricity.
And although it may be diluted, polluted, and nonsensical chaos
I’d rather live in my little box.
In the box, you can pay $14.95 and up into access.
Through electricity, searches for ‘abusive parents’, ‘emotional abuse’, ‘am I living with a psychopath’. ‘symptoms of fibromyalgia’, ‘wizard101’, ‘aol’, ‘msn messanger’, ‘webkinz’, ‘youtube’, ‘anorexia’, ‘pain management’, ‘suicide’, ‘coping mechanisms’, and ‘doctor who’ lined data history.
Google draws answers to browse and view, but never peers into my outside box.
If the world only knew that the most frequent signs of trouble come from those who hide it best, we wouldn’t have a common search for ‘attempted suicide’ or ‘obituaries’.
My best friend came from the land of Mooshu, a level 38 life wizard named Rose. We battled monsters greater than the quests required us to achieve.
That bridge maintained a small social availability. Thank you for electricity.
In the morning, 2:45 a.m., the internet awaits while most disintegrate into exhaustion. It is in this distance, bones break and bleed. Alone.
The internet culture rejects everyone together. Thank you for electricity.
Thank you for telling me I am fucked up, thank you for the tips on how to starve, thank you for reassuring me that someone would help end the abuse, thank you for letting me know that I didn’t qualify to be exempt from abuse, thank you for failing to provide an adequate satisfaction, thank you for the pictures of the Rolling Stones, and thank you for the tumblr posts.
Does it haunt you to know that those you love drown themselves in sadness when they know you’re asleep?
I haven’t slept much in 7 months. I’m restless because I sense distress.
And I share that distress with you.
And I can talk but it’s never absorbed.
And I can be passionate about music but all I know is that you’re waiting for me to shut up so that you can be passionate about something more interesting.
I’m super observant and afraid of what I see so I go into denial and forget that I’m free to opinion.
I am also wrong about everything. My opinion is wrong. My input is wrong. The evidence of which I base my opinion is wrong. Is there anything right about me? Am I even valid at this point? Or am I just to sit there and be subjected to the opinions everyone wants me to have?
I’m manipulated modeling clay.
How sad do you feel to know someone who feels that they belong to others so they cannot have personal attributes?
I watched how people manipulated me, and I let them do it in anguish.
I watch how people manipulate me while they think I’m blind.
And the screams inside my soul erupt into silence because no words describe the sudden mess I am.
Do you ever question what I say, or is it just bullshit to you because I bore?
I could talk for hours about Andy Warhol, avant-garde art, music, politics, and psychology.
Listen to me when I am near. When do I ever speak for more than 4 minutes about the things I love? I’m not allowed to share myself.
I’m not allowed to be so personal
I’m troubled inside and attempting to have something of my own and it’s always snatched away
I’m not ‘everybody’. I understand ‘everybody’ can think what I think but the important thing is that I think it and that it’s important to ME.
Don’t label me as everybody. You call me out to be destined to blend in and my life story to be written in invisible ink. Do not call me everybody.
If you give me a computer, and you tell me, “show me what you love”, I will go to social media and gawk over people. I will show you what those people love. I will not show you me. I do not love me.
I believe people talking about what they are passionate about is a self-allowance of loving oneself enough to be passionate and caring about issues or beings. I can’t even love myself enough to scream at anyone about the things I love. I’m not given the time to, because it’s not modern. It’s the past, beyond and behind us, so why should other people care about it like I do?
Typical Erika. Bitching at 3 a.m. using generalizations because she doesn’t want to start a conflict within or without herself. I know of some who would prefer me dead, or perhaps not, because they know that’s what I’ve wanted for years.
I laugh about it now. I laugh when I’m suicidal. I laugh because the desire to be a writer spins itself as a joke. I laugh because I release my urges when people cannot possibly help me, and then I yell at them for not helping on command. This stupid action of mine led to the consultation of concept albums to numb the dredge of a prescription overdose from the past.
I wish you could hear my despair in the fade of piano chords or trembling vocals on amplified songs I wave in your face. I wish you could see how these songs connect to the child crying under the covers, trained to silently cry. Trained to make faces and patterns out of the wood on the ceiling to keep from being scared. Trained to whimper instead of scream. You’ll look over at me and I’ll be living out a song. I guess the songs trigger PTSD flashbacks. But I’m somehow calmed by it all. The psychological damage of the time frame connected to these songs ceases when I play them. I try to undo the actions. I’m trying to go back in time to save myself, because the present me is the only one willing to save the past me. That’s distressing. I want to save myself in the past. If you saw me back then, would you?
The bushy eyebrows, sweatpants, and weight are gone, but the scars travel through my veins, brewing bubbles under wary, worn skin. One of these days, the fake grace I put up, will fall. The charred lace crumbles into the ash beneath my feet, and I whimper once more to be submersed in comfort.
Thank you for the electricity.