Depressions-Tagebuch

#85

My life is based on extreme dissatisfaction. I have never been able to do what I wanted to do. I have never done what I want. It was always just layed out for me. Right infront of my face. They know when I'm at their service. They know, them making plans includes me without question. I'll come with them. Like a dog on a leash. At their service. Without question.

They know I'm alone. Kind of pathetic as well. A character, a clown, misery. Useful, though. Not as good as the older brother but pretty okay as well. Not talented. Just living.

I guess that's just the fate of the younger sibling.

I want to be alone. But I don't want to be alone without doing something, I need to do something. I need to stimulate my senses. I don't have smack, I don't have cocaine, I don't have meth. Wouldn't know how to obtain it in this small, shitty make-believe town. All I have is a plastic bag and glue. Stinking glue, the kind you cannot work with, makes you too dizzy. I've got that.

I could stimulate my senses to feel better. To be able to do things I want to do. But it won't be enough satisfaction. Of course, I'm too scared to cover both my mouth and nose and inhale lucky fumes. Because I'm me, couldn't do it.

I know that I am on a big search for satisfaction. I am englightened, I believe, but I need a kick in the face. To wake up. Like back then, when I opened my skin in order to feel. I won't do that ever again, I love my body too much, because I am enlightened, I believe. Now I'd like to have an inner stimulation that I cannot see, unlike bleeding scars. Now I'd like to feel chemicals inside my veins, I'd like to feel my lungs open to the lucky fumes.

Don't look at me, they told me I don't deserve it. Not with words. They forgot I can read them. They forgot I'm standing right beside them. Don't look at me, look at them. I'd like to talk to you about the things that make my eyes shine. That fill me with satisfaction. You won't listen. Listen to the others. I'll talk to myself. Until my eyes shine. Satisfaction.

I'm the observer. I saw you walk by me for the 26th time today. Complaining about it. Contemplating misery. But you shake your head, look down at me and move on. It's not for you. Put it on me. I'll carry it for you. You know I will. They know. It's okay. Always has been. Makes me crazy. Talking to myself, about myself about others, like a screenplay, like a book I think I've read before. Crazy. Uncomfortable. Am I?

I don't like ads before my music plays. Gives me dissatisfaction. I don't like when the songs loses its flow. I need the flow. A wave of energy. I'm alive, so why should I feel dead? I am open to misery, because that's what I am. I fit into it, like a frame and a painting. They know it fits me. They don't talk about it, though. Too depressing.

Don't ask me what I want, just make the damn plans. I'll cry about it later. Won't regret it though, because I'm enlightened.

The sun isn't made for me, is it? The harmony. Dreams. I am misery. Misery is me.

Lucky fumes won't cut it. Need stimulation, satisfaction now, not later. Need.

Smack, cocaine, meth, speed.

Can't go on, I'm tired. They take my hand. Drag me. I need to go with them. Make-believe.

No satisfaction for me. No flow. No lust.

A room. Tasks to do.

By them. For me.

Artificial satisfaction.