They were born into the darkness inside our heads. They whisper to our ears in the harmony of the night when we are bitter, cold and alone; masking the tunes of our hearts. They feed on our anger, dread and sometimes on our pains and fears. They force themselves aboard our thoughts and see the worlds through our starry eyed souls. They touch upon the details of our imagination. They feel our seclusions and depressions while numbing the rest of the sensation that we've got left. Anxiety nurtures their remains and distances make them louder and more tense. You can see them crystal clear written with an ink darker than blood on the skin of the strangers. Like an invisible bruise that disappears when other people look. Some of us might have been graced with a singular voice that fights back against all the nonsensical ones. It does all the self-hugging but the score will always be nine to one.
We all have them. But these little monsters take different forms. We like to give them our own vocals to make them sound less intimidating. After all, we want to listen. Mine are uniquely harsh. They always tell me that I mean nothing and that I'm not worthy of the people around me. They tell me I'm vulgar and unwanted. They chunter about how I should not feel the way I do or accept the person that I'm; my life is frivolous and it should end. I should kill myself. I believe I have created half of these stuff by my sick mind. The other half was recalled from the words that destructed me in the past. But the voices remember the worst of us and they love to make sure we never forget. That's the inferno I live in.
Sometimes, I wish there was a button to flip to shut them off or at least turn the volume down. Maybe it's the tranquillity we are looking for; that brief window of time which might give us calmness and satisfaction beyond belief. For once, the world will suddenly be rich with possibilities. But can we really handle the deafening silence or the void that never ends? Are we ready for this martyrdom? Are we willing to make the trade? Maybe we are just afraid to hear our true voice; afraid to realise that we are the real monsters. It has been us all along.
We all have them. But these little monsters take different forms. We like to give them our own vocals to make them sound less intimidating. After all, we want to listen. Mine are uniquely harsh. They always tell me that I mean nothing and that I'm not worthy of the people around me. They tell me I'm vulgar and unwanted. They chunter about how I should not feel the way I do or accept the person that I'm; my life is frivolous and it should end. I should kill myself. I believe I have created half of these stuff by my sick mind. The other half was recalled from the words that destructed me in the past. But the voices remember the worst of us and they love to make sure we never forget. That's the inferno I live in.
Sometimes, I wish there was a button to flip to shut them off or at least turn the volume down. Maybe it's the tranquillity we are looking for; that brief window of time which might give us calmness and satisfaction beyond belief. For once, the world will suddenly be rich with possibilities. But can we really handle the deafening silence or the void that never ends? Are we ready for this martyrdom? Are we willing to make the trade? Maybe we are just afraid to hear our true voice; afraid to realise that we are the real monsters. It has been us all along.
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