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Sometimes I wonder, what right does someone have to hurt someone else. What right does someone have to make someone else unhappy. There is no 'not knowing' or unintentional. Why isn't something 'good' done unintentionally? How does this figure into the always holding balance of things to be, and things that are? How can someone cause so much pain without even knowing that they're responsible for it? How can one person be killing another person everyday without even knowing they are dying.
There is never a mistake. There is a first time of doing something wrong, which can be forgiven. There is never any appreciation. There is a first time of admiration. There is never any loathing. There is a first time of hate. There is never any jealousy. There is a first time of envy. There are never any friends ... there is an endless trail of people who come and go. There is never love. There is a first time of closeness.
There is a surreal feeling that drives the madness behind every human or inhuman act. A memory, a person, an object, a situation, a determination, a hate, an envy, a love ... each of these or one of these, can take a bizarre shape which drives people to do something. And always one of these things it is. For without a reason, there is no cause, and without cause, there is nothing.
As I sit here listening to a lonely piano play in the back, the tumultuous memories and feelings rush back of the days gone by, and how I'd like nothing more than to be cocooned in the warmness of the past memories, the sunlight on the steps leading up to the world that I left behind to come to a cold and unforgiving new road through the bright and shiny gold gates of false promises. There is nothing more inviting than to pull my head between my hands, curl up in a ball of self satisfying comfort, and just cry. Cry not to the world, cry not to me. Cry not to any other person, and cry not to anything that can understand. I look for no sympathy, and I ask for none. I want none. I want my sanity. I want to be loved. I want to be hugged. I want to be heard. I want to be spoken to. I want to be appreciated. I want to be made to feel special. I want to be me ...
There is never a mistake. There is a first time of doing something wrong, which can be forgiven. There is never any appreciation. There is a first time of admiration. There is never any loathing. There is a first time of hate. There is never any jealousy. There is a first time of envy. There are never any friends ... there is an endless trail of people who come and go. There is never love. There is a first time of closeness.
There is a surreal feeling that drives the madness behind every human or inhuman act. A memory, a person, an object, a situation, a determination, a hate, an envy, a love ... each of these or one of these, can take a bizarre shape which drives people to do something. And always one of these things it is. For without a reason, there is no cause, and without cause, there is nothing.
As I sit here listening to a lonely piano play in the back, the tumultuous memories and feelings rush back of the days gone by, and how I'd like nothing more than to be cocooned in the warmness of the past memories, the sunlight on the steps leading up to the world that I left behind to come to a cold and unforgiving new road through the bright and shiny gold gates of false promises. There is nothing more inviting than to pull my head between my hands, curl up in a ball of self satisfying comfort, and just cry. Cry not to the world, cry not to me. Cry not to any other person, and cry not to anything that can understand. I look for no sympathy, and I ask for none. I want none. I want my sanity. I want to be loved. I want to be hugged. I want to be heard. I want to be spoken to. I want to be appreciated. I want to be made to feel special. I want to be me ...