i've been trying harder to improve myself recently, a pitiful attempt at christian values and
the rejection of my vices; the infection of my rotting mind. it helps, sometimes, but as always i
follow my cycle, a pendulum of swinging ups and downs. i am the sun to my earth, turning and turning.
relclusion and mutilation and self-hatred, i am the absence of all passion or goal. i am utterly aimless.
i twist and contort myself, forcing myself to become palatable, respite in my brief moments of artificially
constructed happiness, but eventually i always cramp up and revert to my old self. the only time i feel like
me is when i press the razorblade against my carotid artery, fighting against instinct and will.
the threat of death is the one thing that makes me feel alive. i induldge in the warm bath of suicidal
ideation and wallow in the pits of isolation. it's what comes naturally to me. but everything that is natural
to me makes me want to scratch every epidermal cell off my body and give myself up to infection and decomposition.
my intrinsic self love and self loathing will never allow satisfaction, only disgust and resentment. i will never
be fulfilled. i turn and i turn and i turn, flicking through my little book of personalities. nothing i do is real;
desperate attempts to garner attention, shock, acceptance, rejection.