Am I real? I must be - only reality could be so fucked up. Grasp the nettle. Ignore the pain. Craven. A dark world full of pain. Pinpricks of beauty to focus the hurt onto the depths of our souls. A ray of light piercing the shadow shroud surrounding my heart. Semi permeable membrane - fresh hurt can get in, but what is there already is trapped and must remain there to fester. Butterfly. Beauty is fragile - so easily destroyed - so easily corrupted. A shell around the decomposing heart. An irresistible trap for the unwary. On the outside looking in. Unfounded accusations. Paranoia. All that I am. I hope one day to be more than this shell filled with hate. Moss on the walls. Cool and damp. Like the grave. Remembrance that this isn't forever helps. "And his name is Atrocity". Killing is OK when done in the name of peace. Or the name of God. Silence comes. I cannot stand it for long so a quick break from writing is required. Better. With music I feel the emptiness less acutely. The music talks to my soul. Time to abandon self and bask in the divinity of it.
Tuesday, 2 November 1999
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