To a friend who was really no friend

Tell me once more the story, my friend,

of a world that needs my services,

and I will call you a liar. This world?

You think it needs me, of all people?

You're either a fool or (as I've said)

a false friend who mutters pure nonsense

to me in the hopes that I'll listen

and care

and change.

But why? What's here for me? You?

Not likely.

"Don't give up! Fight! Continue to struggle!"

Do you even know what it feels like

to know nothing's right but the fact that I'm wrong?

I am incorrigible,

insufficient to mend e'en the first thing about me

but here you stand: smug, secure,

certain of your ability to "fix" your friend.

Your friend?

Really?

Your project?

Oh, I'm sorry. That's too close to home,

isn't it? Do you honestly think that a band-aid

of half-hearted "care and concern"

will patch up the seven-inch scar that's been bleeding

since I was a child, pretending heroics at thirteen,

telling myself that you were what matters,

forgetting my dreams and my wishes

and turning to all that you told me.

Bleeding dry.

How could I know that your stories were lies?

I was naïve! Yes, I should've known better

but you were so lovely and needy, affirming

my thoughts of importance,

of saving the damsel,

and now, seven years down the road?

Whom have I become?

Empty

Unknown

Enigmatic (by choice)

I base my life on opinions from others

and pretend I am more than

just veneer

coating

dead, hollow places:

once bright, now cold, dark, forgotten.

Who am I but a dozen masks?

I take one off and put one on,

but underneath

I remain

featureless

To cry

Quietly imagining a world

In which everything we pretend has become

A reality--unimprisoned, faultless, and free

But that is not reality.

It's a drug, to keep me sated and clumsy.

I drink the death I brew for myself

And wish for a day when I will be

Alone

Unloved, unhated

Unbroken, unformed

Unknown

The realness of a record of wrongs

(Wrongs that mean nothing?)

Is too much for me to grasp

I twist away from what I feel

Because feeling is like a finger, pointed

Ruthlessly at me, accusing

Never relenting

Always tormenting

No one defending

And what does it mean to be free

If freedom is nothing but agony?

Explain to me why, God!

I believe, but so do the demons

Is that what I am?

Are they just like me?

Knowing, but running and mocking and dying?

I want to cry, but you've closed my eyes,

And now I'm alone.

Alone with the one that I hate

More than all

Emptiness

The past few weeks have been a time of some serious soul-searching for me. I'm almost halfway done with my undergrad, working on getting a degree that will hopefully lead me into the field I would like to pursue my whole life. I'm studying stuff that's interesting to me, and that I love learning about.

In spite of that, I feel empty. My academics aren't bad, but I'm not focused or diligent or excited when it comes to any of the things I'm working on. My relationship with God is not at all in a healthy place. I am consumed by the cruel lie that so easily dominates so many of our lives: the lie that others' opinions define me.

In a cruel twist, though, I very rarely consciously care about the opinions of the people around me. I think that I'm okay and secure in who I am, but I have gradually come to the realization that my motivations for most of what I do and who I am are based entirely around a desire to shape others' perceptions of who I am.

I thus find that I'm not actually certain what I want out of life. I care so much about how people view me that I have trouble knowing who I really want to be. I want people to think I'm smart, spiritual, philosophical, deep, funny, outgoing, reliable, friendly, or any number of other adjectives. I look at the people around me, see personality traits they have that I admire, and attempt to gain them for myself. The problem is that rather than focus on developing them in myself, I have a tendency to work to develop the appearance of having them. I think about how a nice guy would act or how he would talk, and then I work to behave that way.

The result is that the time I spend with people, I spend playing an elaborate part that I have developed in order to gain their approval. My identity is defined by appearing to be a certain way, rather than actually being that way. And this leaves me lonely, tired, unmotivated, angry at the world, and angry at myself. I know that I'm not supposed to be living for other people, and so the life I've been living doesn't feel like life at all.

Who am I? To be perfectly honest, I don't really know. I know I'm not the person I've been spending my energy pretending to be, but that doesn't really mean much; knowing who I'm not doesn't go that far towards helping me to know I am.

I wish I could conclude this post with a point. But there isn't a point to it--it really is an inconsequential thought, one born of desperation and frustration and sadness. It's a thought more for me than for anyone else, and so it's not a particularly motivational one. I feel like I've lost myself. No, it's more that I feel like I never found myself in the first place.

Cross-Section of the Cuts I Make

I wish I could express the way the pain

Is what I want. I know you doubt it, but

I do not want attention when I cut.

I do it for myself, so I can gain

A bit of what I used to feel again.

See, I feel dead. I feel it in my gut,

But how am I to live when I'm about

To fall apart? I live inside my brain,

And all the things I hate are thoughts that build

Into a monster that devours all

I want, until I'm left with only hell:

A hell I hate. It leaves me drained, weak-willed,

Alone, and I feel nothing, so I fall

Into the only way I feel alive.