November 14th, 1992
If I believed in redemption, could I find it? I’m sure there’s such a thing as too late, but does that mean there’s no reason to make a fresh start? I’ve failed myself time and time again. I’ve failed everyone from my first draw of breath. I like to pretend that it isn’t that way, that there’s a reason for everything, but I know better.
I spend more time trying to pinpoint where it all went wrong and then spend copious amounts of time succumbing to addiction as a way to numb the pain that I myself have caused. I’ve been nothing but a failure. As a matter of fact, there’s nothing abstract about it. It shows on my face, on my body. It shows in everything I do, or for that matter, everything that I don’t.
Do I have a right to be miserable when it’s all my fault? I feel most at home when I see the rain fall. I wish it would wash away everything that was ever wrong with me. But that can’t happen. You take your scars, and maybe they’re many, but you just wear them whether you want to or not. You walk around with more and more weighing you down until you bend or break, and that’s when you decide to start again.
Drown me in the city of souls. Burn me at the stake. Flay my body with lightning and remove any lingering essence of personality that might have been left behind. I don’t want to be this anymore. There wasn’t a day that I’ve lived where I truly got to be myself.
I dream of happiness. I dream of peace. I dream of serenity. I’m a fool. I dream of words I’ve never used in my day-to-day, and I dream that my day-to-day was only a nightmare. I dream of a simple four walls that never betray me. I dream of long nights that never make me dread the next day to come. I dream of a whimsical life that resembles the likes of a cartoon. I dream, and I dream, and in the end I just wake up. I wake up, and that which I loathe is my reality, and that which I love has never existed to begin with.
And, really, what’s a home? Is it just a roof over your head? Is it a place you long to be? Is it meant to comfort you and make you feel secure? Whatever it is, it’s clear I’m nothing but a stranger to it. I wish it weren’t that way.
I wish I were better at being better. I wish things had been easier for me. I wish I never knew the pain that I do. I wish I didn’t have memories to suppress. I wish I knew what it was like to be loved deeply and truly. I wish everything in life wasn’t some sick game. I wish I had the strength to carry on with my head held high. I wish I knew what strength was.
I’ll keep trying, only because I haven’t been allowed to die. I’ve died before, and I’ve come back; it must have happened for a reason. Maybe I have some sort of purpose. Who knows?
Then again maybe I’m just kidding myself.
It’s more likely that I’m just cursed, doomed to suffer through hells both unimaginative and still somehow unpredictable, all for some sin that I can’t even remember.
So much for wishful thinking…
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