Blast
My dear diary, I am sorry it’s been so long since I've witten... It’s just that this last year has been really depressing and my feelings have been to the point of feeling nothing at all. I feared that if I put things into perspective, like I always do when writing, the conclusion on my reality would just make me want to kill myself. In fact, I really do not know the reason why I am writing to you right now. My situation has not improved at all. I am still feeling like shit everyday. Maybe the reason for my sudden writing is more closely related to the fact that this is the first time I am writing as if I am speaking to someone, to you–sort of a Freudian slip from my mind, I guess. Yes, that is probably it. In fact, I am pretty sure that is it. This is a suicide note to everybody. I should have seen it coming but now it is all clear; I am going to shoot myself in the head. Put that 33 right in my mouth and fire. Brain matter all over my desk, hopefully it’ll be beautiful. But I don't want my suicide note to be written to you, my dairy. That would be too pathetic, and I believe my motive is valid. So this is to you. That is right, you out there reading this thing. The reader. You have just become my audience and my only witness. Watch me closely and pay attention to your reading because I have not done this in a long time and I am getting a little nervous and anxious from seeing that gun I have just pulled out of my drawer and placed next to my keyboard. It gives me the shivers. If it’s from fear or anticipation, I don’t know. Baer with me, contradictions will clear out later. You, reading these rambling words, I wish you could care about me. I wish you could save me. I know that this is almost impossible but let me tell you about my self in the hopes that we might find something in common and you can have an understanding for this soul who has lost his ability to appreciate. I am writer, and I believe everybody is a writer in his or her own way. I believe this because being a writer is all in the heart and although some don’t use it as often, the potential is in everyone. In my youth I was perceived as a weird writer with unorthodox stories. But that was not I. I just wrote a few of those to get some attention. In reality, I was a romantic. I wore my heart in my sleeve and felt all my emotions as if they were touching sensitive nerves. Life used to be a stream of feelings and I was pushed and pulled right along with it. I remember how I would see a dramatic scene in a street corner, like friends hugging or some other thing like that and be so touched by it, that the words of poetry would just come down on my notepad like rain. And, at night, I remember I used to walk in the city and marvel at all the different lights reflecting on the wet streets, on the few passing cars, and on the windows of the nearby shops and buildings. I contemplated everything and everything moved me. I used to smell the wind and think of freedom, watch the sunset and think of love, taste a fruit and think of spring. Joy was overflowing. My writing flourished. And, my reader, in those times I would be so joyful and feel so lucky that sometimes tears would just come out of my eyes, just like that, out of appreciation of beauty. I was a true artist, a poet, and my words were magic. Now all the beauty is gone and melancholy is all that is left. And I don't even know what brought this gray cloud over me. Chemical imbalances in my brain, family history, the answers escape me. You live all your life by your art and take everything else for granted, so when this is gone, your lifeblood goes with it. All I know is that I wake up everyday and the absence of beauty gets heavier in my soul. And, having seen it once, I just can’t bear to live without it anymore. An old fan came over a week ago and upon seeing my distress told me that I should write the stories I used to write as young, the ones that made you re-read and think. I forced that bastard out of my apartment and told him that he did not understand beauty, writing a story like that would be the last thing I do. Remembering this comment makes me uncertain whether you will understand anything that you just read, but I don’t care anymore. I just grabbed my gun and put against my temple. I am currently writing with the index finger of my left hand. On the count of three I will shoot myself out of this misery. One, two,
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Oh, my reader, you thought that was it, eh! …my bloody head over the bloody keyboard. Now listen up. On line seventeen I say, “pay attention to your reading.” Line thirteen, “Put that 33 in my mouth and fire.” Line seventeen; “I have not done this in a long time.” Line twenty, “contradictions will clear out later.” Twenty-seven, “perceived as a weird writer with unorthodox stories.” Thirty-four, “the ones that made you re-read and think.” Thirty-five, “makes me uncertain whether you will understand anything that you just read.” Conclusion: this was just a story, an exercise on my art of deception. Have a good day.
My dear diary, I am sorry it’s been so long since I've witten... It’s just that this last year has been really depressing and my feelings have been to the point of feeling nothing at all. I feared that if I put things into perspective, like I always do when writing, the conclusion on my reality would just make me want to kill myself. In fact, I really do not know the reason why I am writing to you right now. My situation has not improved at all. I am still feeling like shit everyday. Maybe the reason for my sudden writing is more closely related to the fact that this is the first time I am writing as if I am speaking to someone, to you–sort of a Freudian slip from my mind, I guess. Yes, that is probably it. In fact, I am pretty sure that is it. This is a suicide note to everybody. I should have seen it coming but now it is all clear; I am going to shoot myself in the head. Put that 33 right in my mouth and fire. Brain matter all over my desk, hopefully it’ll be beautiful. But I don't want my suicide note to be written to you, my dairy. That would be too pathetic, and I believe my motive is valid. So this is to you. That is right, you out there reading this thing. The reader. You have just become my audience and my only witness. Watch me closely and pay attention to your reading because I have not done this in a long time and I am getting a little nervous and anxious from seeing that gun I have just pulled out of my drawer and placed next to my keyboard. It gives me the shivers. If it’s from fear or anticipation, I don’t know. Baer with me, contradictions will clear out later. You, reading these rambling words, I wish you could care about me. I wish you could save me. I know that this is almost impossible but let me tell you about my self in the hopes that we might find something in common and you can have an understanding for this soul who has lost his ability to appreciate. I am writer, and I believe everybody is a writer in his or her own way. I believe this because being a writer is all in the heart and although some don’t use it as often, the potential is in everyone. In my youth I was perceived as a weird writer with unorthodox stories. But that was not I. I just wrote a few of those to get some attention. In reality, I was a romantic. I wore my heart in my sleeve and felt all my emotions as if they were touching sensitive nerves. Life used to be a stream of feelings and I was pushed and pulled right along with it. I remember how I would see a dramatic scene in a street corner, like friends hugging or some other thing like that and be so touched by it, that the words of poetry would just come down on my notepad like rain. And, at night, I remember I used to walk in the city and marvel at all the different lights reflecting on the wet streets, on the few passing cars, and on the windows of the nearby shops and buildings. I contemplated everything and everything moved me. I used to smell the wind and think of freedom, watch the sunset and think of love, taste a fruit and think of spring. Joy was overflowing. My writing flourished. And, my reader, in those times I would be so joyful and feel so lucky that sometimes tears would just come out of my eyes, just like that, out of appreciation of beauty. I was a true artist, a poet, and my words were magic. Now all the beauty is gone and melancholy is all that is left. And I don't even know what brought this gray cloud over me. Chemical imbalances in my brain, family history, the answers escape me. You live all your life by your art and take everything else for granted, so when this is gone, your lifeblood goes with it. All I know is that I wake up everyday and the absence of beauty gets heavier in my soul. And, having seen it once, I just can’t bear to live without it anymore. An old fan came over a week ago and upon seeing my distress told me that I should write the stories I used to write as young, the ones that made you re-read and think. I forced that bastard out of my apartment and told him that he did not understand beauty, writing a story like that would be the last thing I do. Remembering this comment makes me uncertain whether you will understand anything that you just read, but I don’t care anymore. I just grabbed my gun and put against my temple. I am currently writing with the index finger of my left hand. On the count of three I will shoot myself out of this misery. One, two,
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Oh, my reader, you thought that was it, eh! …my bloody head over the bloody keyboard. Now listen up. On line seventeen I say, “pay attention to your reading.” Line thirteen, “Put that 33 in my mouth and fire.” Line seventeen; “I have not done this in a long time.” Line twenty, “contradictions will clear out later.” Twenty-seven, “perceived as a weird writer with unorthodox stories.” Thirty-four, “the ones that made you re-read and think.” Thirty-five, “makes me uncertain whether you will understand anything that you just read.” Conclusion: this was just a story, an exercise on my art of deception. Have a good day.