tempted.

the knife cuts through me like butter. soft, perfect skin descends into scars. blistered and burnt like the inside. outer inperfection in harmony with inner pain.

too ugly on the inside to be pretty on the outside.

too broken to cry.

there once lived a girl with blue hair.

her name was absentina and she lived in the united states of solipsism with her pet shadow, aura.

her best friend, mirror mirror, lived in an identical house across the street and practiced a form of voodoo called lovehate. absentina would spend her days corresponding with mirror mirror about such important topics as the real color of the wind and sexistentialism. when she wasn't exchanging psychic IM's with mirror mirror, she sat watching tv on the radio while staring at the sun. her life, like many other lives was a mostly futile endeavor built from scattered dreams and stolen moments held together by adhesive lust. she often travelled to and from her many empty engagements in a vehicle constructed entirely of tongue depressors, fake black roses and blind ambition. in the back seat of her vehicle she kept an umbrella of delusion...just in case it rained...which, of course, it always did.

in love.

in a strange way, i have fallen in love with my depression. i love it because i think it is all i have. depression is the part of my character that makes me worthwhile. i think so little of myself, that i have such scant offerings to give to the world, that the one thing that justifies my existence at all is my agony.

eudiamonia.

when i was 18 i sat an IQ test. i never expected the results to be anything spectacular, but they were. 172. if this is correct it would make me more "intelligent" than leonarda di vinci and freidrich neitzsche. obviously it was a false result, probably brought on by my photographic memory, but i guess it effected me, it gave me the idea that i was special. that somewhere in my insignificant existence was a thread of latent potential, a lurking inner genius waiting to unveil itself. i quickly learned that such "genius", or whatever you would call it, is more a curse than a gift. potential is only a gift when its used. to let it rot like i have is to constantly pick an open wound. every day you are confronted by your lack of success. and it eats at you. if you let it, it will destroy you.

by the time alexander the great was 27 he had conquered 75% of the known world. yet at 23 i haven't even conquered myself. as someone living in the 21st century i shouldnt judge myself against the benchmark of someone from 2000bc. but he's the closest person to a god that i can find and the only one i respect enough to model myself on.

i wish i was better with words.

my mind is full of a hundred thousand colours, each mood and thought an obscure and subtle variation of the last. yet the only colours i can find in my words are black and white.