I could starve painfully (maybe) and hope that everything ugly inside me is dissolved from my body. I could be empty and the thought both excites me and saddens me profoundly.
I desire no nourishment anyhow. I’ve lost my desire to eat. Nothing tastes good anymore. I didn’t even have to try.
Sometimes I try to find something delicious but even in those honest attempts I’m not gratified one bit.
I wish the beauty in the idea of emptying oneself was so, but even when fasting it is painful. There is also no doubt that someone like myself would be very much intrigued by the sort of abstract beauty and pleasure in the pain of restricting oneself and emptying oneself. But that is all abstract and the ideological allure may be present but does not relieve or transform my pain. It mostly serves as a blindfold, not to the pain so much itself as reality of my self deprecating methods.
This is to mean that I am impure and false in my suffering. I do not fast to be empty, a process that is painful, but I starve to feel the pain of emptiness and blur my thoughts with the mystique of beauty in suffering. Where no beauty exists in my cowardly ways, it is only a cloud to shield my awareness that I choose and create my unrelenting pointless pain and suffering.
In my process of emptying, cowardly and transfixed on suffering, the emptiness is not freeing at this point but opposite. The pain has become my nourishment and chains my soul to never be free or empty, only warped — bulimic and obsessed.
This all I believe to be true of me. Who would not rather choose that false pureness and beauty of pain? Although it is becoming obvious that the beauty has very much faded from my eyes and like an addict still choose the damaged cycle of hatred, choice, and self realization.
So for now, although with some realizations, I will intend on starving for the pain that results from my emptiness. A pain I will pretend to be pure, beautiful and meaningful. A twisted and deceitful nourishment where punishment and pleasure are no longer distinguishable in my head or thoughts. But distinguishable in my body, ribs, organs: stomach, skin, heart, and lungs. I feel no pleasure in these places. But the pain I feel in these parts of myself are not experienced physically but mentally or emotionally. The result is a jumbled blur of pleasure and pain. So that both my physical and emotional pain is perceived as pleasure and the adverse.
It becomes evident to me when I harm myself (in various many ways) and find comfort and beauty in it’s damaging effects; even if I am tricking myself into believing so. On the other hand, most whatever I’ve defined, perceived, or experienced as pleasure has/will become a secret, a source of shame or embarrassment, and self-loathing. So, it seems no surprise that I would succumb to such methods of gratification when my pathetic self has become lost in a perceptual labyrinth of emotions and my ideas of pleasure and pain have become victim to immature moral justifications.
Not surprisingly I feel so down now and suddenly.
The things I find but do not understand will always taunt me and confuse me.
My questions will never be answered and I would not ask either, but only imagine and drown in my own pathetic thoughts, unworthy of being spoken aloud but strong enough to cripple my soul and imprison my potential for potential.
This scares me.
but imagine going into a store and being like “yes i need three thousand knives”
but imagine walking down the stairs and seeing this