| Is it safe for now? |
[Feb. 27th, 2006|01:59 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | heavy | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Buckethead - Frankenseuss Laboratories | ] |
I come on this site nearly everyday. If not everyday. I don't like exaggerating. Is it exaggerating to guess but cut yourself short of admitting your obsessive behavior, when in fact that's what it is?
I keep thinking: write out the plot. Write an intro. Get this script thing rolling. Get this novel thing rolling.
And it may be narcissistic of me, to believe that someone would steal my work, but it's a real threat to me.
My writing is all I have. It's the only thing no one can take away from me legally. You can have it, if you kill me. (Which may or may not be against the law anymore.)
New utility laws are in effect. Depending on how useful you are to the world, we'll determine whether or not it's a crime for you to be killed.
It's kind of like an inverse bounty. But then of course, us useless folk would be given something to do. Hunt each other down. Manhunt indeed. Every idea has already been taken.
Mine are just the regurgitations of everything good I've ever witnessed.
And unconsciously I've witnessed a lot of amazing things. Talent, quirks, attributes, faults and events.
Characters too unbelievable to still believe they were real people.
Hallucinations too real to believe they were fake.
I am not an observer. I am not a journalist. I don't report truth. My reality is an opinion.
Only when I compare myself to others do I begin to fully grasp how completely useless I've become.
I think there was a time when I was useful. Or maybe I just occupied myself from realizing it incredibly well.
Maybe we're all just good at that.
The world can't all of a sudden realize there's no point to existing and change it.
I can't all of a sudden realize I'm good for nothing and change it.
This feels like a part of me.
This feels like it's going to be hard to quit.
This was depression.
It doesn't matter how much you think about anything, the feelings you have about things are yours & yours alone to live with.
And my feelings on that[my usefulness] were ignored before this point.
Now I want to forget.
Maybe when I go to sleep.
Maybe in my dreams.
Maybe when I wake up.
I won't remember what it means to be useless anymore.
Will this only serve as a reminder?
Is that all you are all for? Is that depression's real burden? Every single person's existence is my reminder of inferiority.
I could love you. But every other man alive could do it better. |
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