August 22, 2009

[Awful] Story Time [Awful]

Regret is everything. It consumes your whole being. It doesn’t care if it’s winter, fall, spring or summer. When it rains it’s there laughing at you because you wore your nice clothes, unaware of the possible chance of thunderstorms. It’s there when you find out your wife is cheating on you with your best friend. And it’s even there when you get a call from the hospital telling you your parents died in some freak accident involving a faulty gas leak from the old stove you told them to replace time and time again. Regret haunts everything, everywhere.

It never leaves you alone. It’s like the tattoo you got on your ass-cheek: you can hide it from people and no one knows you have it unless you show them. The only difference is the fact that you are able to control whether or not people see the tattoo. Regret appears and evaporates as quickly as a summer shower. But the actual storm can last as long as a hurricane. You can try to hide it from people but something always seems to set it off at the worst possible moment. Someone says a name or mentions an event similar to the one you missed and, boom, your mind is set off on a downward spiral to a cavern of depression.

There is nothing you can do. Once you miss that one chance, that one single chance when you are sixteen, it creeps in your mind forever. There is no making it better. There is no healing. The scar keeps bleeding for the rest of your depressing life. Day in and day out you say to yourself, “I really should have done that. It would have kept me from being miserable.” It’s that feeling you get, you know, when you’re in a room full of people but you still feel completely alone. You feel worthless, empty, and meaningless.

All of this and one day you think you’ve had it. You think, “Fuck, I’ve had enough of this shit.” And you go home wanting to do something about it. Express it somehow. So you try to paint. You suck at painting so you quit. Then you try writing a song on guitar. You suck at guitar and you can’t sing. So you quit. Then you sit down and just start writing nonsense replacing the word ‘I’ with the word ‘you.’ You think you’re clever for a moment then realize you suck at writing, too. So you quit and go drink yourself retarded because the alcohol is the only thing that numbs the pain.

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Currently listening to: Thursday
Song: A Hole In The World
Album: Punk Goes Acoustic