I once dreamt of writing a great story. A pool of deep imagination and thought that would reflect everything that i was. A journey built by my ideas, my experiences and my spirit.
But that story will never be written. As much as i believe my brain is abundant in interesting ideas, i have come to finally realise that my heart is a barren wasteland where no positive energy can flourish.
I have come to completely engulf the core of my soul with all the negative energy around me, no longer can i purge my anger and disgust out of my aura. It festers like a virus that corrupts me in ways that not even my darkest thoughts can match.
I feel nothing but rage, an incredible rush and urge is corroding whatever was left of my being that was sacred. The urge to cause pain. I have never seen other people as anything other than 2 dimension beings, there faces are flat, and so are their words.
The special torture that i am granted is to know that everything good that ever touched my heart has withered and died before i had a chance to see it form, through the void in my heart i have thrown away good things. The paradox is that i realise what i have lost but do not feel anything, nor do i try to stop myself when taking an action that could be rash and foolish. And yet i reflect on the decision over and over with more emptiness and anger.
What will i become when my soul is totally assimilated by hatred and self destructiveness? Where is this going? I guess i shall find out.
Right now my only regret is… i shall never have the chance to write that story…