The White Room / Stay Out Of My Mind - A very chaotic journal [NSFL]

[Toxic King]

He intentado recorrer tantos caminos que mis pies han acumulado un océano de cortes y llagas, heridas que, si bien forman una interesante historia, no me acercan más a un concepto de la realidad que me pueda satisfacer. El año pasado luché con mis demonios, espectros de toda una vida se manifestaron en un estallido de dolor que me llevó a, finalmente, admitir el peso de mi alma, de todos esos pequeños dolores que e han atormentado desde la infancia. Mientras tanto, cuál borracho, recaía una y otra vez en los malos hábitos, buscando en el hedonístico abrazo una vía de escape. Ya no soy el hombre que fui, ya no peso lo que pesaba aquel orondo adefesio, pero bajo la superficie sigue existiendo un abismo de oscuridad y tinieblas que devora mis entrañas. He navegado hasta muchos puertos y siempre he sido rechazado, pues el fuego nunca es bienvenido en una casa hecha de madera. Tal es mi condena, pues por más que explore nunca he de encontrar un sitio al que pueda llamar propiamente mío, mi existencia reducida a poco más que un error; una anomalía que nunca podrá ser corregida. Yo lo intenté y no pude, obteniendo únicamente el castigo de la calamidad más inmensa. En ocasiones me pregunto si existe ese lugar, esa Arcadia impoluta, hermosa y agradable en la que pueda ser yo de forma completa. Por ahora, he llevado tantos rostros, que mis rasgos se han erosionado, y cualquier yo primordial que pudiera haber existido no es más que una sombra, luchando en vano por ser real.

So many faces I've worn, that my true traits have become undone; I can't say there's sorrow or guilt, beyond that for which I was built. Shallow, incomplete, as if you were to take a teddy bear and scoop out all of it's fluffy stuffing, in a sense, making me nothing but a casket without even a corpse to fill it. Words pour out of my mind, none of them carrying meaning and yet, I find it impossible for even a sigh to escape the prison of my lips. Was I foolish to pursue this endeavor as if I seriously thought it would be my last? A fire yet remains, burning from afar as a relic of the days I've left behind, I will try and spur it, taunt it into consuming me in the hopes I become a phoenix, even if the mere idea of flight frightens me. Like the bard said: I have wings of steel, but they never really move me. Why must my mind be a lair? Each thought evokes more corridors, forming a labyrinth of constant noise, and there's not even an off button.

Muerte. Tan drástica, tan final ¿Dejará de fascinarme en algún momento algo tan macabro? Quizá es la sangre, rugiendo en deseos de violencia, quizá es el placer prohibido de visitar los rincones más sórdidos de la mente lo que me incita y motiva. Siempre ha habido un cierto carácter bíblico a todo esto, es decir, existen tantos mártires que quizá, en cierta manera, mi propio calvario es este vacío existencial que mis propios pensamientos conjuran. Haga lo que haga, nunca llegaré a sentirme humano, siempre seré algo inferior. Mi rostro y mis pensamientos podrán confundirse por los rasgos de un mortal pero una verdad mucho más siniestra arderá por dentro, exponiendo mi monstruosidad de forma grotesca y vil. No me mires, pues yo tampoco lo haría.

To be able to say that I'm not is liberating. I'm not the prodigal son, I'm not who you want me to be and I'm not a soul in need of saving. I simply do not fully exist. I merely mimic humanity in an attempt to survive, so feel no remorse and feel no pity, lord knows I've drained mine years ago. So I'll leave with a simple question, knowing full well I won't get a satisfying answer: what does it truly mean to be human?

 

[Toxic King]

Tomorrow
Much is at stake this upcoming April. It has been almost half a year since my life had a harsh reset and frankly, I could never predict the changes I'd experience after having such a drastic shift in personal matters. To erase the idea of self in hopes of building a whole new being is never an easy feat, but having walked in a pyre of my own making I no longer feel shame nor guilt, at least not the way I used to. How many restless days I've had, pondering about the roads that were not taken, and how many futures I destroyed remains a chilling realization, and yet, I still draw breath, meaning there's still a future ahead. While it would be foolish to assume that everything will turn out fine, I'm also not envisioning the most grim of possibilities. I will stoke a flame I had neglected for far too long, because if it doesn't burn me it will give me wings, and right now I'm at the point where I can endure yet another destruction and use it as motivation to keep on going.

I have changed many things to the point I mock the idea of a "me" even existing, as I've become nothing more than the ship of Theseus made flesh. However, many oddities remain, as if deeply rooted inside of me, unable to let go, I just wish they don't weigh me down. If anything, the one thing that never changes is the void within. I meet people, talk and express myself yet I barely see anything in them. Why has the world been populated with so many husks? They can live and function normaly, yet I can't seem to reach their souls. I don't doubt that, at the end of the day, it's me who just can't feel the humanity. That part of me feels like it will be the one that lingers most, the one that wants to form a true connection but can't. I exist in the borderline of life, and while I can mediate between others and be the voice of reason and calm, I can hardly see myself belonging anywhere.

This has always caused me great pain, the idea that, as far as I'm concerned, I failed to internalize the true meaning behind being human, so I remain as a simple idea, a concept of what a person is, and because of that, I can't see others as anything besides ideas, and people only perceive me as an idea myself. I was made wrong. I believe sometime during our adolescence there's this moment when all clicks and we end up fitting with the world in one way or another, but that part of my development seems to have failed miserably, and has left me as the hollow visage of a man; a jester to some and a memory to most.

I've tried to speak my mind freely, to see if there's a soul willing to listen, but either there's nobody there or the words will never escape my lips. And yet, despite this scar that may never heal, I'm doing good, at least in some way or another. I've never been healthier and I have stuff to look forward to in the future, such as new skills to develop, plots to fully enjoy in the most childish way and a foolish attempt to explore what could've been.

The darkness will always remain within me, I know this much, but I can clean the filth my soul carries and I can take solace in having been able to build my body. My mind and heart may falter, but my form has never been this good, and it will do me good, because for the foreseeable future I will fight alone. If there's anything to keep me going is the wrath boiling within, a sense of spite towards those that took me for granted. But now there's no more lies about it, my masterful act ended, I have to pretend no longer.

Perhaps I'll make a friend, which I doubt, but I hope April gives me wings. I've endured my own chains for far too long. I now long for the sky. Will I be the phoenix or will I suffer from the folly of Icarus? Whatever comes to pass, I will carve my path, find my place and finally embrace being human. That being said, I do not wish this agonizing metamorphosis to anybody, for not many get to end up where I'm at.