Thoughts

I feel, I feel, I feel. I think, I know, I wonder, I wish. I feel, I hope, I pray, I see, I hear, I feel. I cry, I stop, I run, I look, I listen, I scream. I feel. There are too many emotions, thoughts, desires, needs, and questions in my head. Often times I believe that if I allow myself one more thought I will explode. Something inside me will snap, the pressure gauge will slide into "OVERLOAD" and I will blow up. My body will shatter into little oozy bloody pieces, flying from where I stand and get on everything and everyone. People will freak out and wonder how the hell a person can spontaneously detonate like that.

Sometimes everything fades into a dark emptiness that presses me inwards, a suffocating silence that drowns out all thoughts and humanity. I find myself unable to speak, think, or breathe. I stare off into space while my insides scream to feel something, ANYTHING, think, remember, TRY, look, LOOK, THINK. These are not even coherent thoughts, only a wordless tightening in my chest demanding life, thought, emotion of me. But these are impossible demands, because I am dead. I am nothing but an empty shell. Soon the shell collapses, and the silence pushes me harder and harder into myself until there's nothing left. People will wonder how I imploded, like a dead star turned into a black hole, the pull so strong that nothing can escape.

I am terribly afraid of being alone, and I am hopelessly addicted to solitude. When I'm around people - the constant buzz of attention and frequent calls of my name, the people who need my time and my listening ears - I can't handle it. The tangible fear and pain of humanity calls to me and I can't ignore it. I am constantly aware of their need, their suffering. It is only made worse by the fact that I know they aren't aware of mine. I tend to share a fake set of troubles, a shallow pool of concerns that lead others to believe I am open. Nobody knows about the deepest parts of my soul, the cracks and crevices thousands of miles deep that lead to a broken person. It is not socially acceptable to be depressed beyond hope or reason. It is not normal to be fascinated with death to the extent that I am. My need to come as close to death as possible, teetering on the edge without going over, is not a suitable topic for conversation.

So I keep it all to myself.