Sometime I realise that perhaps...perhaps I do not have a full grasp on my understanding of my world. My life, seems to be something of a joke, at times. Something that, though I wish I could control it, I do not know how.
How I am so capable of telling myself "no".
I know when to say "no".
I know why to say "no.
Never it seems do I successfully do it.
Do I abstain from drinking and drugs because of the label I have given myself?
Because I truly have self power? Because I know that were I to break it I would truly succumb to the forces within me that strive, so perseveringly to over take me? Or is it because were I to break that label, it would just be one more failure on top of a list of so many?
Food is something, if I am busy, or not thinking I will not know if I have had any or not. Water is the same. But, once this becomes known to me, I will drown myself in water, and then feel ill for days at a time.
Food you see, is a different battle.
I may not be hungry, I may not even want what I am eating. But so help me if I could only wipe it from my consciousness, when there are so many times it consumes me.
I know I am not hungry, I tell myself not to eat, that it will make me feel more ill than I have already. I tell myself it is too late in the evening, it will keep me up late with indigestion, nausea, nightmares.
I do it anyway.
The few times I withhold are few and far between.
Small triumphs, that never last.
It is an uphill battle food and I.
If I never ate again I would be happy.
I used to force myself to eat, as it is socially acceptable to eat with others when out at dinner. Rude not to eat what someone offers you.
I don't have a clue what is wrong with me.
Why I do things I know harm me.
When I know to do better, and do so anyway.
Food is not my only enemy. There is my procrastination. My laziness that goes back and forth between overbearing workaholic, to lethargic scum. Things I know I need to do, get out of the way, to continue certain endeavours I have taken upon, that never get accomplished. I start so much, yet finish so little.
Was I always meant to be a failure?
Is it truly all I know?
Will I never be an artist?
Am I truly an analytical fool?
Nothing against those with analytical minds.
But why must I so arduously love something if I was never meant to be a part of it.
Am I just a forgotten fool, who's life was a mere accident.
I mean, I wasn't meant to survive.
Not from birth, not through childhood.
Here I am mostly because of a woman who would never give up on her children.
No matter how weak, ill, fragile.
Did she do me a favour?
Will I ever feel as though I am someone to make her proud?
All I see is ...
All I see is a cadaver with a false sense of entitlement.
False sense of power.
Dwindling breaths, that will soon be for naught.
All I see, is a nobody.