It Dwells In Me (All That Remains)

[Warning: Reader discretion is advised. The following content may not be suitable for sensitive readers. The theme of this entry is pain. So be warned. If you're one of those freak-outish types, please refrain from reading any further because you will probably not get it and go on a full freak-out. I don't want to alarm anyone, neither do I need any more smothering in my life. This is simply how I feel. If what you read here bothers you or worries you, simply click the page away. Thank you.]

Nothing's really making any sense at all

Let's talk.

My mind is all over the place. The engine is running at full throttle and I can't seem to turn it off unless I succumb to a state of faux-bliss promised by the dreamland. Little pathways of neurons sparkling in thousand directions at different force levels. Explode, fade out, explode again. A clusterfuck neuron war going on in my brain. And there I am, right at the heart of it, hiding behind layers and layers of make-believe happiness. Pushing them so far into the back of my mind until they become white noise. You see, it's tough work to keep going. Insane amount of effort to get myself up every morning and go about my business while the bed stays there, offering comfort and unconsciousness. Very alluring.

Whatever.

Something I've been denying for so long: I have this amazing instinct for self-destruction, physically and mentally. I could be the perfect alcoholic, or the perfect addict. I am very addiction prone, yes, that's a true fact. But what I wonder is whether it is because I want to punish myself real good. Like big time. I'm not talking about boofuckinghooIamsad temper tantrums. I'm talking about something scarier. I'm talking about helpless rage. It starts with a whisper in your mind. Before you can stop it, it seeps through your bones and flesh and becomes you. You're nothing but that whisper at that point. Then it goes back to your mind and gathers its pieces to become one big rage fit. And all this time, you know you're helpless against it. Frightening. That's how it was for me so I lashed out. It was funny. Still is, in some aspects.

The worst thing I've done in terms of hurting myself was driving at 140 km/h down the hill, all curves and bends, listening to Niklas Sundin's gorgeous Focus Shift solo. Or was it the Fatalist? That speed, the possibility of a crash, the idea of inflicting that amount of pain was sort of... mesmerizing. The only thing that made me get my foot off the gas pedal after like the third curve was the idea of hurting others. Don't get me wrong, I am not suicidal. I don't want to die. I simply want to use pain as an outlet but I've kept it under control because if I actually did something, I wouldn't know how to stop. Like I said, I could be the perfect addict.

The urge is still there though. It feels like a knife forged in the fires of expectation and anger and it burns. Burns almost like how desire burns when you yearn for someone. Well, desire and urge is almost the same thing but we'll get to that some other time. Do I have this urge because I hate myself? Not sure. I think it's because I want to turn my emotional pain into physical so there will be a solution. But really, no one gets it. No one understands how beautiful it is to turn that rage, that sorrow, that pain into something physical. It's almost like every thread of agony in your soul just flows out of the point of impact. Liberating, that's what it is.

Am I scaring you? No? Good. I'm glad.

If you're scared, that's good too because that means you are actually worried about me. Sweet, that borders on adorable. Someone who reads this and actually cares, ain't that a change? Not that you have to read but still, you know. It's just like that song says: I can't move my lips but my heart is screaming. The pain of it all got too unbearable. So I figured: hey, let me write it out.

Right...

I thought of nicer ways of saying what I'm going to say next but I can't sugarcoat it so I'm just going to lay it out in front of you: I'm craving touch. Not just anyone's touch though. Someone I can trust. Someone who understands my boundaries and push them further when time is right. Someone who wants nothing more than mutual respect and love. Someone whose mind is on the same frequency as mine. Oh boy, I would love that person so hard if he was willing to step out of dreamland and into the real world. I would love him so hard and deep that we would perhaps reach the heaven within.

For someone who doesn't really like being touched, this is absolutely weird, innit? But it's what it is. We're only human; we're made of conflicts caused by different realities entangled. So this mystery man that I need... I would revel in his touch - whoever he is - and let him take me to the deepest, darkest corners of the red sea. Restrain my movements. Cover my sight. Just his smell and touch. A few lazy slaps. Fingers leaving their imprint on my cheek. Straps of leather striking the skin. Not cutting it open but hard enough to leave stripes of delight. Him marking me. As his own and no one else's. Then the room beginning to shake. Roll, tumble, break. Breath racing. I would give up total control to him during those intense moments; you, my dear reader, have no idea what a relief that would be for a control freak like me. It would mean that I'd have to trust this person completely to let myself go and that I wouldn't have to worry about anything but bliss as long as it continues. And when my earth shattered and crumbled and all I could see was blinding white light, I would perhaps punch the glass of my own fear and let the wind through.

I would even let him break my heart, tear my mind to pieces, rip my soul apart so we could begin the mending process, this time properly instead of duct-taping bits here and there. How lovely it would be to lie there in the afterglow, not being able to register a single bit of information except the hazy warmth across my body and the delicious soreness? Oh how intense would that be!

"These violent delights have violent ends." said the bard himself; but I welcome the pain.

I must sound like a libertine with a dirty mind to you, but then again, you guys have never seen me desperate and lonely at all. (Sidenote: Molko, how do I love thee, let me count the ways.) Do you see why I crave this man - whom I've yet to find - and his touch? It would be nice to believe in the concept of "meant to be" once again. Hilarious, though, how I am so afraid of loving and being loved by others yet I am ready to belong to this mystery man with all my body, soul, and mind. But honestly... it's all about being free even for a fraction of a second. Free and bound, how perverse.

Have I made your eyes bleed yet? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to.

What you've witnessed here comes from deep inside.

Take it. You've read it already anyway.

Think about it. See if it applies to you or someone you know.

If not, that's perfectly fine too.

I'm not going to ask for it back later. It was me who willingly shared it.

My only request is that you take my warning at the beginning into account.

Don't freak out on me.

Don't ask me to 'seek professional help.'

Don't try to steer me in the oh-so-right direction.

Don't smother me.

Don't worry.

After all, this pain is mine.

It dwells in me.

#AllThatRemains