Truth. (original content)

You. Yes, You. This is for you. The collective you. Everyone of you. The owner of the broken heart, that's not mending within your ribcage. Your soul is laid bare on your sleeve. This is for you. Written, by one soul, for another soul in particular, and no other soul altogether. Surprisingly, the mind behind this is sober.

As someone accused, and often rightfully so, of enjoying wallowing in his own misery, depression, disdain, and self loathing I can say that it really isn't where I want to be. My heart is trapped in a pit, covered with the rotting remains of three distinct and very different heart breaks. So far, two people could hold their nose long enough to dig through one layer of filth only to uncover the next. At which point, both of these people covered up this pit, with themselves, and the heartbreak that ensued from that.

Rumor has it, or a couple close friends of mine, that are obligated to say this, that there is something incredible at the bottom of this pit. And as they are friends, they are not required to dig much, the thin silt hiding me from friends is easily swept away. It is beyond difficult for people I am in relationships with to see this. Why?

If I am so great to be with, take such great care of you, or make you feel good about yourself, how can I be so easily cast away? The main three have also said that they do not deserve me, I however feel differently. I am not forced to give these things to you, nor do I feel obligated. Whatever I give or have given you is absolutely by choice, whether you feel like you deserve it or not, I know that you do, and if there were any doubts in my heart or soul about such, I would not give these things to you.

These questions, these thoughts, how to think, what to feel, are constantly going round and round my mind. So heavy on my mind and heart are these things that in my normal, waking hours I am mogadon. Sleep, if it is to be found, usually offers a temporary break from these things, although getting to the world of dreams is nearly impossible for me, returning to my misery in the waking world is far more difficult. Sleep is one of few places where the minutes turn to hours and I'm not wearing a face full of pain. My pursuit of sleep has become something of an art, the occasional masterpiece showing up in the form of a full nights sleep.

Regretfully it has also become a far greater vice of mine then I had ever hoped possible, although it undoubtedly leads me closer to becoming a truly broken beyond repair excuse of a human being. Is it because of my age that I drink so much? There have been a couple nights where I flat out scared myself with how much I drank. Lately this has been taken to the absolute extreme, empty bottles littering my porch and counter top, full ones crowd my freezer, fridge and closet. Am I going to destroy myself?

Why do I need to feel this emotional pain manifest itself in a physical manner? Physical pain is endureable, to me, emotional pain is absolute agony. The weight of worlds crushes down on the pit of my heart. I almost got in a car accident yesterday, what were my final thoughts to be if I had? Not the life flashback, not my family, not my friends, it was unfortunately, the solace and utter peace of knowing that the pain I feel here, and now, will be nothing compared to that when my soul is burning in the pits of hell.

My advice to any treasure seekers, looking for this rumored golden heart of mine. Don't do it. I don't want to add the pain of something else to the pile. I don't want to toe the edge of what could be and watch you step back. I don't want to watch you wake up one morning and tell me that night that you don't see me as a part of your life anymore. I don't want to watch a freak accident become an incredible burden to both of us and self destruct what we have. Gold and silver are not worth destroying yourself for. I am a fools gold and I hold a fools hope. Do not waste your time on me.

You. Yes, You. This is for you. The collective you. Everyone of you. The owner of the broken heart, that's not mending within your ribcage. Your soul is laid bare on your sleeve. This is for you. Written, by one soul, for another soul in particular, and no other soul altogether. Surprisingly, the mind behind this is sober.