Odd Thoughts.

Am I that boring? Do I even need to ask? MAybe its just that I don't want to be heard. Not conciously, but subconciously, down there in the undertone of me, where a smile is a far more sinister thing, there most be a longing, a desire to shrink from view, fade into the grey of the wall and live invisible. I mean, why else would it be hard to reach out and be noticed? Why else would a voice lack power, its only skill in being ignored?

Do I embrace conformity? Take joy in the mindless effort of sameness and militaristic precision? I don't think I can answer those questions, though they seem to answer themselves... That and no-one likes looking too closely at parts of themselves that they deem lacking. That's because we know that they will always be lacking, that no matter how furious we get, we'll sit through every insult in silence, because that same part of us that wants to vanish says that they're right.

And that's my complaint. I won't speak up. I laugh at myself inwardly, because it's so damn pathetic. What I want to do, what I think I should do, none of it matters, because I won't do it! And what's worse, everyone understands, they all say it, but in the end, no one wants them to. I know I don't. Every course of trust and tale of reaching out only ends happily in movies. And perversely, it feels good to be that bit alone, to feel alone, to feel so annoyed that all you can do is sit there and take comfort in the silence of the wall. That voice can get fairly loud then, and ignoring it can be a grating exercise in self-control.

Maybe I should say something. What I want to say. It's a wonderful idea, but I'll never get there. Only the impersonality of paper, or the warm hatred of a keybpard will draw out that part of me. The rest just halts it in its tracks, if ever it moved at all. Paper is eyeless and endless, a single piece a truer, deeper mirror than the clearest glass, each blot twisting in its ruined, sinful white to show you, where the eyes of another drop out into the dark, abyssal cavern of them. Does that help you? Do the echoes of your words in that cavern create a sound that soothes? That draws out the voice? I don't think so. I think it's expensive and counter-productive, because by acknowledging it, you give the voice credence, and are thus at its mercy, though ignoring it also comes with a price. Maybe I am alone... The one red flag in a sea of people jumping into the gilded cage of therapy and capitalist guilt. It really makes you want to puke, it makes me sick at least, but I can't be too critical. Some people draw strength from different places, that's clear, but there is nothing worse than someone who throws all their hope at therapy for no better reason than that it has been publicised, paying a proxy to do the soul-searching they're too scared to do themselves.

Damn, no I'm sounding like one of them... I don't think I'd make a good therapist though. I have a lot of problems showing sympathy. Can you tell? How the hell did I manage to move this far off-topic? Actually, scratch that, it occurs to me that there never really was a topic. Maybe that's why no-one shows up...

Signing off.