Member-only story
I’m Tired of Life
No one needs to hear your bullshit.
Not in like a suicidal way, but like a “done” way. I don’t know who I am, or where I’m going. I hate typing on a computer to express shit not many understand. But at the same time, I can’t talk the same way I type. It’s VERY fucked up.
Writing doesn’t come easy to me, but it’s one thing that gives me relief at times, not most times, just “some” times. I write, rewrite, back space, delete, edit, the whole nine yards. I just want to say what my mouth can’t, but my fingers can. It’s fucking maddening.
If I wrote like I typed it would be a mess.
The fucking anger in me is catastrophic. Sanity doesn’t exist, but insanity does in the writing world.
I can’t spell, I have no patience, and the people I think understand me are the ones who don’t. Just as I type this I am losing energy. I’m so sick of mistyping, miss spelling, missed words, missed everything, missed life. I’m a horrible writer actually. I think I am trying to be someone I’m not. Didn’t Bukowski say that? “Wait?”
My words, and distorted thoughts aren’t for everyone.
I generally put them out in hopes someone can feel, or at least sense the pain I write, while ignoring their own. My projection is deep, but sometimes it hits the right projector. Not…
