The Dark Will Kill You Faster

If I were to describe the magnitude of love in my life then I would compare it with a flame. However I would say that it is currently a flame that has died down to a couple of small flairs and embers. There is a bright flicker of life here and there but as the night grows cold it withers even more. If I were to light a torch and leave the fire then I would have the light and I wouldn't be scared anymore but It also would lack true warmth. A torch isn't hot enough to warm me. Only the nice crackle of the fire can do that. I can feel it in my memories; a nice radiant heat that sweeps over my forearms first and slowly heats the rest of me. I could bask in that warmth for a lifetime. That's why people do. Yet... my fire is dying and I have a choice to make. Do I light a torch and move on or do I stick around and try to wait out the harsh bitter cold nights without light or heat to sustain me. I was once informed that the cold can kill you quickly but the dark can kill you faster... My choice is clear to me. If I am to survive I must Light my own way, for this fire is dead and it refuses to rekindle any time soon.

The Boundaries of Self Destruction

          Is it tragedy or is it merely karma? I find myself desperately clinging to the hope that she still loves me after everything that I put her through. I know she doesn't, and I fool myself every day when I go to hug her in the hall or watch her walk away, slowly dying inside with every step that puts her further from me; not farther, but further. She looms in and out of my thoughts freely and without a care in the world, constantly tormenting me, telling me that she could still have feelings, but never showing them, never hinting that something still remains there for me. I told her that I would wait patiently only a few days ago, but what was a few day to the rest of the world turned into dreadful centuries for me, smiling on the outside, and weeping on the inside. I shouldn't do this. It's not healthy. I know, but I cannot look back. Behind me there is nothing good save for a few moments of happiness sprinkled into a battered and bruised childhood torn straight down the parental line.
          I want to scream, and cry, but my father sits working at home in the dining room. He would hear. He would ask what is wrong and I would refuse to tell him. The bond between a father and son doesn't exist, only a shallow representation of the stereotypical relationship. Or when I find myself in the household of my mother... I would cry out from my room like a weak little brat. David would be the first to hear, then my other brothers, and then my mother and step father, always willing to help, but yet further from me than they should be; yes, still further, not farther... and though I would like to think that my brothers would not judge such a desperate soul, especially one so close to them, I know that it would be inevitable. It would weaken the already flimsy character I am to them and the rest of that family.
          So I sit in silence, building up, bottling and storing everything inside of me, with the occasional release to a friend. One that barely cares about me, one that I can trust, not because I know they wouldn't tell someone, or judge me... no. I don't trust people because I know that they will be kind, I trust them simply because they are predictable. Take yourself for example, you will read this, think about it, and the next day I, along with my problems, will be locked away somewhere in the back of your mind. The world doesn't care about one. I can trust you because I know what you'll do... nothing. I can trust one of my friends this way. I call her a friend for lack of a better fitting word. Understand I use it loosely. I can trust that she will put on an encouraging face if what I'm worried about is legitimate, or nod her head and smile if its just funny for her to watch me squirm over something she thinks I shouldn't be worrying about. Then, the next moment we will be talking about something else and life will go on... untouched, unchanged, unaltered and inexplicable and relentlessly painful to endure...
          I write out of desperation. Somewhere deep deep inside me, I hope that her "plans" could change. I wish solemnly that her mind were never written in stone, and that non of this had to happen. As I lie in bed at night I fight a battle with my eyes on two fronts. I refuse to let them show a sign of weakness, and I refuse to let them tear; and on the other end of the war I refuse to let them shout. I long to stay awake, in the real world where I need not live my nightmares. Where I need not watch them hug or kiss or walk away together. Where I need not let my mind control the outcome. At least in this world I can find salvation with a simple distraction; a moment of hope or a misconstrued and contorted gesture from the one I love so desperately. That I can feed off of. I can live off of these things for days, wondering if she would smile like that at just anyone. Or I might wonder if it was just the way that her eyes seemed to catch the sun or if they had truly betrayed a few moments, however brief, of feeling that she knew she shouldn't have for me. I wonder why, if she has these feelings, she doesn't act on them, and show me outright... Sustain my hope...
          I understand that to say I am not well is most likely just an understatement. I need help, and I'll admit it here, where no one cares, where I can scream all I want and get no response but when it comes to the physical world, I can't bring myself to utter even a sigh of discontent. My words mean nothing when they come from my mouth. You hear them and maybe think once on them, let the sense labor your mind for merely a moment and then move on... but here, where the words don't go away, where they are written forever, you cannot ignore them. you cannot run from them, because now they include you. I dare you to step in and help. You know I need it... but yet tomorrow and the next day and the day after that, and all the days to come before my death will be void of any contact from a being that truly cares...

Attention

          In my eyes, Dante is one of the most amazing names in the world. Truthfully, I sometimes wish it were my own. However, I don't believe I would deserve to be called the lasting. In all actuality I deserve a more realistic name; Handsome doesn't seem to fit me either.
          A friend is something that not anyone essentially needs to survive. Indeed, I begin to wonder sometimes just how many I actually have. At this particular moment in time I seem to be under the impression that not very many people have truly been kind to this kid that already feels like he's been through hell.
          You shouldn't have to beg someone's approval... of anything, small or large. Yet the world and its network of social webs consisting of socialites that have an insatiable thirst for attention and other peoples' approval of themselves, seems to revolve around just that, begging. Don't be fooled, it's subtle, but people beg for attention every day with cloths, facebook statuses, makeup, the spoken word, etc. As a matter of fact, take this article for instance...  You could decide that this is just a silent plea for recognition and acceptance or even a call for attention and praise if that's what you think. I would hope however, that I could at least come off a little more "Anna" than that...
          I wish that people would for once take a step back. Just step out of their life and look at themselves. If you like the way you look desperately clinging to your phone, caking yourself with makeup, spending tons of your parents money on the newest cloths, desperately trying to get a compliment or an ounce of attention form someone else, then by all means continue doing what you're doing. But I can guarantee you that if you could see yourself from my eyes, or almost anyone else's you would choke on your own vanity...