I don’t get what the fuss is all about.
I mean, You add the act to the a masterclass of dramatic music and a morose backstory et Voila: another Shakespearean tragedy collecting dust in the dungeons of many a memory castle until its biblical ashen oblivion. Pathetic.
On the other side of the faceless coin, I stripped suicide from its fineries, its theatrics and its orchestra and accepted its nakedness for what it’s not; it is not my cowardice nor my bravery, it is not my well deserved catharsis and it most definitely is not my long awaited salvation.
The meds? The Colours? The depression and attention deficit? The 9 to 5. The highway drive. The bus. The rent. You, him, they, us. I could tell you that it is any or all of the above but it’d be a lie.
It is just me. Aye.
I, I, I adore and condemn I, insecure and lost I, Grey I.
I am just bored, you see.
Deadeyed and hardened by the consequences of conscious colourlessness, I survive.
Yet I am not chewing at my broken nails nor laying on the cold floor in a puddle of my own making.
I am just done, you see. The self conscious, self righteous and self obsessed I has reached the final destination of the fear and loathing train going: Choo fucking Choo.