Darkness Falls

What is the saturation barrier of a human being? How far does one allow the other to go before they become unable to feel anything more than the numbness that fills the extremities when a void has been rendered unable to feel full? 

When was the last time someone genuinely asked how I feel without it being seemingly done out of someone else's self interests? I cannot truly answer this question in any real paradigm of the imagination. 

I feel like the odd man out always. No matter how much I try to express what I'm feeling, the never ending storm I'm weathering and the hell I find myself in mentally and emotionally, I end up being a spectator to the intertwining a of something that's always more important. 

I don't share anything about myself that isn't heavily solicited. It's always a half-drunken rambling or a vomitting of my emotions spilled out everywhere with no true path your thoughts can follow. 

It's become something commonplace. I've spent years of my life suppressing how I feel or things about me to the point that I feel truly uncomfortable talking about myself or sharing intimate details about me. 

It's a very difficult mindgym I navigate daily. It's hard to fight back the warring factions of depression, sadness and melancholy. It's difficult not to slip through the cracks and I find myself slipping and flipping often. I don't know what to call this, because this is a rambling off of the top of my head that I never truly know how to get out or say. 

I feel like I'm always under fire for my feelings or statements, but can never ever feel valued or listened to when it comes to mine. I say what's on my heart and it's shot down like some enemy combatant. I'll never be able to be the person you lean to or go to first. I'll never be more than an option, at your disposal for a fitting occasion. I'll never be anything more than potential ... Because my past actions and shortcomings will always and forever be more important than anything I'll ever do with my life. 

I will always be the sum of my incorrect, poorly designed, faulty parts. No matter how hard I try ... I can't seem to stay away from this toxic environment known as my existence. How can anyone ever view me as their rock, their soldier, their salvation, if I can't even express myself and my truest inner feelings without always having recoil or criticism. 

Maybe I do just need somebody.

Maybe I'll always be roaming around, always looking down, and all I'll see
 ... are the painted faces, that fill the places I can't reach

In the Lonely Hour

Maybe I am just the sun of everyone else's collective thoughts and impressions. It's very easy and safe to say that in the lines of sights possessed by others, that is precisely what I am. 

Maybe I'm just this crazy, psychotic lunatic that never will have the perception or vantage point he needs to be what everyone else wants him to be. Maybe my mind is the reason I can never fit into the narrow mold that is presented for me. 

Maybe every time I hear that I'm just crazy, I'm a psycho or any other jab at my mental health or mental state ... It's like a bomb is detonated in my left atrium. A pain that very few can ever know or feel. Maybe the shame that follows me through life will one day become so insurmountable that it sees its victory, and I ultimately meet my defeat. 

I've fallen on my face, had my legs swept out from under me in this life a thousand times over. I've tried and fought to maintain me and to be the person I'm so oft 'encouraged' to be; only to see that encouragement turn to hatred and anger when I stay true to myself and the mode in which I was constructed. Although it is clearly a faulty construction, it is what I know. 

It's the most defeating feeling one can face. To look in a mirror and not know yourself; to find that the people that you've trusted with the manuscript of who you are and what you've seen are the ones who ever so easily use that manuscript to read passages that devastate your confidence, defeat your energy and neutralize your passion and will to keep trying to find you.

It grabs hold of your mind and pushes you further down into the vortex of your melancholy mood and somber acceptance that maybe you're so invariably flawed that you are here to serve that purpose. To be the scapegoat, to be the one that is easiest to blame, condescend and betray ... You awaken every night to replay the pitfalls of your existence on earth, to see the lesser side to what everyone tells you is a great person. To feel worthy of nothing more than solitude and loneliness. To always shoulder the anger from the external while trying to quell your war against yourself within. 

Maybe I am supposed to be all of those things. Maybe God made me this way not to change and get better. But to serve my purpose as the insane, hollow shell of a human being that everyone else's eyes seem to see so prominently in my soul.