Things People Say

'Oh you are so negative.'
'Oh you are always pissed.'
'Oh you are so depressive.'
'Oh you are so boring.'

'Oh yes, Neanderthals like you make me lose my faith in mankind.'
'Oh yes darling, because I suffered through an overdose of moronity, courtesy, you.'
'Oh you need to not use that word so lightly, it offends the actual depressed people.'
'Oh you need to start hanging around with 'your' kind of 'fun' people. What does it include, btw, half baked fb rants and selfie postures?'

Don't expect respect if you cannot show it. :-)

No Rhyme Or Reason

I don't know what I'm feeling.
I don't know how I'm still feeling.
Writing used to be the balm of sore life, the medicine that nursed me through days and nights of cold love and longing.
The only area of my life uncontaminated by petty competition.

It was never about writing 'better', it was just about writing.
Because that was the only way I could express myself.

So when did it become 'If you cannot write better than 'X' or 'Z', you shouldn't write at all?'
The only area uncontaminated by petty competition is now infected.

I miss those days.
When the voices crowded my head and I released them on paper.
No therapy could compare to it.
The voices still crowd my head but instead of releasing them, I sweep them under the rug.

Truth be told, I feel like a Stepford Wife.
Writing honey-coated lines for sugar sweet brands.
Superficial.
I want to sink my teeth into those words, bite them apart, just so the little bitches realise how full of crap they are.
Shallow. Kinda like the girls that the men I like go for.
Words without depth, words without me.
Where's me?
Where's the rawness, the passion?
The honesty that punches your heart and rips your guts out?
Aren't words the last hope of mankind?
The last shelter where mankind can cry, love, hate with a fierceness it can only dream of in real life?
When did I start pimping words to make a quick buck?
When did I stop loving them?
They are the only ones who ever loved me.
Without rhyme or reason.
How did I forget the times they rescued me?
Narrowly pulled me away from the edge.
Provided an outlet so I wouldn't cross the line of insanity.
Gone are the days when I used to fill pages and pages with words, big and small, thick and thin, happy, fat, sad, grumpy. No judgment.
Now, every word I write is questionable, changeable. By every random idiot.
It's not a labour of love anymore.
Then what is it? What, pray, is the point of it all?
If I cannot love it, if I cannot protect it, if I cannot fight for it.

Should I give up writing and continue to float lightheaded in this vast numb plane?
Or should I quit the paycheck to keep alive the only thing keeping me alive?