Little Whispers

Um, the start of a diary, I guess? Could be if I decide to keep writing…


Written: December 11, 2007

Published: December 14, 2007


Loneliness, a feeling so foreign and yet so familiar to me. How long has it been since I first last wrote down my thoughts? My feelings? Too long. Far too long.

It hurts, this… loneliness. I do not know a better word to describe it. That constant aching within my breast; my heart fluttering against my ribs like a frightened bird before it dies of terror in the hands of a curious child. I have no one other than myself to keep company.

Wait, that's a lie. There are others, but… how can I let them see this side of me? This side of me that aches, pains, and sobs relentlessly without the ability to shed a single tear? They, the ones I call, dare I say it, my friends, are my very reason for staying alive, but sometimes I feel as if they are not enough. I want more. Yet I cannot allow myself more.

I am sick. I am sick, sick, sick. Disgusting. I love myself like any self-respecting individual, but I cannot help hating myself at the same time. I long to feel the loving caress of another being, their warmth, lips, and soft words, giving me a reason to exist and free myself from the shackles I bound to my own heart, but the only touch I know is my own. I despise it, but cannot stop. How could I push away something that feels so good? My body throbs, blood races faster, and I sweat in the heat of myself, pleading with myself to stop this repulsive addiction, but unable to stop the moans for more, no matter how much it may come to hurt. Anything to make me feel that I am alive.

I know some people who have lost themselves so much that have to bleed to feel that they are living creatures. Is it wrong that I sometimes long to do this also, but am too cowardly and prideful to dare it? They say one's body is a temple, and I treat mine as such. Nearly flawless, pale, smooth, petal-soft, and over sensitive.

How could they understand, ever understand? They joke about being evil and insane, but they cannot even grasp the fringes of it. How can I even explain? The hungry, unheeded desire to smash a stranger's head into the corner of a wall until it splits. Not because you are annoyed with that person, or hate them, or even know them, but to do it simply for the sake of doing it. to want to laugh as you feel that round, firm skull crack and crunch under you palm, bright blood trickling down the ice white paint. To take joy in their screams of agony, please for mercy, begging you to stop, to make them scream simply because you like knowing that this pathetic creature's life is completely at your mercy… is beyond thrilling. Insanity is bliss.

You see and know what you're doing and you know it is wrong, but when you're insane, you do not care so long as you can feel like you have a purpose in the world. That pit… that deep, dark hell that you dig yourself deeper and deeper into is, in a word, heavenly. It's wrong, horrible, and you know that you're only destroying yourself from the inside out, but it feels so damn good that you'll do nearly anything to make sure it never stops, even if you're sent to the deepest pits of a hell that may or may not exist. After all, you might already be there.

Where does the mask end and where do I begin? It's so easy to lose sight of what is what. The acting skills, the ease at which I lie, that fake smile that automatically slips over my lips as I see my familiars, is that even me? I can no longer tell. I do not want them to worry, but then if I do that, why is that I can hardly stand to be around the? To want to turn my back upon them coldly and walk away, back straight, and not ever look back, ignoring their cried and pleas for me to return. And I want to return, so why don't I let myself? Why is it so hard for to get angry at people, but when I do, why do I hold grudges that never fade and only strengthen with time, a tiny voice in my mind urging me to slip into their homes and slit their vulnerable, slender throats? Maybe play with them first. Allow them to wake up to the sound of my chuckling. Talk to them. Taunt them. Explain the entire situation like some sick movie scene and killing them gorily and gracefully in several horrendous, slashing strokes. Killing them slowly, watching with a smile as the light fades from their fake eyes…

No, NO! Goddesses, please no! Why do I think these things? I don't want to think these things! Why do they make me feel good? Like I matter in the world? As if, unlike so many others, I am irreplaceable. A cold, chill jewel within the identical, burning coals.

I don't get attached to things. Love is a word forbidden to me. A forbidden emotion. My friends are replaceable to me, though I do not think I could ever bear to see them after telling them such a thing. The love of friendship is frail and not nearly enough to sate my starving loneliness. I have stopped believing in familial love. And I have never seen or experienced anything that proves the existence of romantic love to me. That sort of love is only in fairytales and fairytales do not come true. They fade and are forgotten, just like the books they are printed upon, falling apart into dust when they have grown old and worn out.

So, then, why do I long for this nonexistent love so badly? The want to be needed by someone. To be loved. To be held and cared for and be caused to think: "this truly is heaven on earth; here with you." Why are such desires out of my grasp? I am hopelessly, completely restricted from it. My fingertips may brush the edges of it, but in doing so I only send it spiraling away again. I can never catch it, held back at the last moment by the sight of a wedding ring upon my finger, worn to ward off potential lovers and to quash any hope that rises within my aching soul. My destiny to remain untouched until the day I die, invisible tears slipping from beneath tightly closed eyelids. Tears of sorrow, loneliness, desire, and denial.

It is painful that the things I dare to love, my books, my precious pieces of writing, cannot love me back. Cannot hold me. Cannot kiss me. Cannot touch me.

Why is it so much, too much, to ask, no, to beg, this one little thing of the Goddesses? Why can I not…

I have often referred to myself having "an artificial heart." One whose emotions are practiced, programmed, automatic. It is difficult to tell anymore if they are real or just a physical reaction to prevent people from asking questions when things seem off with me. I have also said that: "I have a black heart of charcoal. There are some embers within, but I do not allow anyone close enough to spark them into flames." Why did I think this? Why do I still think it? Few people ever get close enough to even feel those embers fading warmth, for when they get that close, I bar the way to prevent them from going further. No one has yet found the key. Not even me.

This longing… this loneliness… it eats within me like a parasite. The pain has long since reached the point where it is physical. To the point where I want to die to make the pain stop. But I signed a contract and made a promise. I do not break my promises. I beg the Goddesses to make the pain stop. To strip me of my emotions so that I am numb. What, oh, what do I have to do? Make it stop, please… someone… anyone… please, Goddesses, make it stop. I feel as if I am in a constant state of dying. I'll do almost anything to make the pain stop eating at me. Making me even more hollow.

Gods… make it stop…