People will never look beyond what they want to look at.

It doesnt matter if you aren't who they think you are. Because people will only believe what they want to believe. See what they want to see. Hear what they want to hear.

And whoever told you that your image is secondary, and character is important, was lying to you.

We're all hypocrites. We're all lying to someone, or about something. And truth is, most of the times people don't really care who you really are, but which role you're playing now.

Forget about being sincere. If you can fake sincerity, you can do anything and get away with it.
I wanna curl up in bed and cry my heart out.
I wanna fall into oblivion, wake up and fall back to sleep again.

I wish I could draw a line between people and me.
I wish I could shut out your voice.
And not feel torn apart when I do.

I wish I could shut my eyes and see nothing.

I always end up as a failure and a wreck no matter what I do.
It's times like this when wish I could be someone else.

Sometimes, life's alot easier when eveything's a blur and you know that things are way too fucked up for you to do anything.
PW brings out the worst in me.

And everything I do seems to be wrong these days.

I think as much as I want to deny, I'm still that girl i was four years ago. Insecure, scared, needy, a wreck.

I hate feeling like this. I hate myself for letting these minor things define. Hate myself for letting these emotions run wild. Hate myself for letting people's expectations and words confine me. Hate the way I react to others' actions. Hate myself for being who I am. Hate myself for everything that is me.

Sometimes, it become a form of release to hate yourself. A habit. A vicious cycle you can't break out.

How can you hate this part of you yet relish it with such twisted satisfaction and adoration?

I don't know what's worst, hating yourself, or letting yourself hate you.
I think I lost my ability to write.

The words, they get stuck somewhere, and everything I do, seems to take a part from me, and I lose so much more along the way.

I'm changing. Into someone I despised. From someone I despised even more.

If I could let others define me, would I still be the person I want to be?

=/

When we don’t know who to hate, we hate ourselves.
Maybe I was meant to live this way,
in a love struck kind of way.
In two dimensions always.
-A Skylit Drive

I can't come to terms with this monster staring right back at me.
Life's short. Fucking short.

You breathe, you eat, you sleep, you die.

I might as well just stuff myself with processed foods and carcinogenic substances. And might as well fuck things twice over instead of striving for tireless perfection.

Might as well play GE all day. =/

Or I could get De Quervain's disease from playing too much PSP.
Or I could dress up everyday and get wasted on streets.
Or I could eat cheesecake and chocolate everyday and laze on the bed and get fatter.

Or I could run away from home now.
Liek now. And go to US/Uk to see my bands live. 8D

Or I could go play GE now and stop ranting.

.____________.
It's my heart against your hands. Scissors paper stone.
You won every single time. And I let you.

Some time back, I realized how replaceable I can be. Or anyone can be. How easily feelings can replicated. How flippantly people can forget one another. And how frequently we meet new people. And how temporal our existences are. I realized how transient was what we had between us. Almost nonexistent. "Almost" because you told me to not lose hope.

And this hope is coming back to haunt me.

I don't know why I subject myself to this vortex of emotions. But the bottom line is, I deserve all this shit. I caused all this bedlam upon myself. And I'm too fucked up to save my own life.

And after all these while, I realize now, that it has always been my hands against my heart. Scissors paper stone.
There's no we. Just me.
And then I felt sad because I realized that once people are broken in certain ways, they can't ever be fixed, and this is something nobody ever tells you when you are young and it never fails to surprise you as you grow older as you see the people in your life break one by one. You wonder when your turn is going to be, or if it's already happened.
-Dougals Coupland


I am burning my wings, my beautiful angel wings. The flames are carmine,
scarlet, vermilion and crimson: hot as painted canvas; raw and violent
as unreciprocated dreams.

I cannot sleep. The blood rubs rough against the thin walls of my arteries: a skein
of chemicals, devoid of volition, simmering in a gurgle of de-oxygenated agitation.
-Dee Rimbaud
Pain.
A silent and mindless disease.

It creeps up on you, and pushes past your walls, as if they have never been there. It wraps its cold hands around you tenderly like a lover. Fills you with passionate dreams of bittersweet love and ambiguous smiles. Sets your heart on fire with hope and promises.

Oh yes, it will give you everything.

It blinds your eyes, and fools your judgement. Words become lies and secrets become fallacies. Your words, its words, shriek and fall apart. They turn to blades, pills and endless thoughts. It wraps itself around you like a leech, sucking, feeding on, festering in every piece of broken past. It burns your heart to cinders and-

So much pain. So much pain. So much pain.

...-nothing.

And then you're a zombie. In a limbo between life and death.
It tears me apart to realise that I'm not good enough every single time I felt like I were. Tears me apart to know that whatever I hold important between us means nothing, fucking nothing to you at all.

Everything is falling apart. Or maybe it already did.

If I told you I loved you and maybe I still do, would that be enough?

I'll lose myself in anguish tonight.
I had to be careful. Inch them in the direction I wanted them to take, use my bait to draw them gently, imperceptibly, toward a prettier story than the one they had their eyes on. A delicate operation. Their eyes start to shine, and their grasp on the little chip of truth would loosen, until it dropped from their hand and fell, disregarded, by the wayside. It never failed. A good story is always more dazzling than a broken piece of truth.
-Diane Setterfield

How long have you stood at the edge staring at the universe, mocking its skies, its stars and moon, its decay and glamour, its paradoxes and contradicions?

Tell me the truth.

An ironic demand.