"Those that can't do often have to... preach"

When there's no hell to challenge you, and no heaven to cry to, what is it that you become?
My life-- full of symbolic facists who never die in autumn, and never bloom in spring. The facists, they are graveyard demons; they are my dreams, my hatred, my love, my needing to define what is undefined.
I don't mean to be the cyanide mixed into a five year old's cake batter, but I feel like a purposeless and drifting...thing... A mingling plastic bag on a withered tree under a gray sky.
Nothing seems attainable at the moment and if it is, the value seems to be degrading.
Obscure? Abstruse? A synonym of your vision?

The feeling's tipping the scale and leeching onto me.

And oh, when you're your own antagonist with fifty sets of soul-jargon, everything is static, non-progressive, adoring repungance.
 I've become apathetic, genuinely hateful, and repressive, all because of this feeling.

Memories of the flames burning when I was a child...
Memories of Rob...
The ignorance locked into a tide....

It's like this feeling of hopelessness can grab a syringe and inject me with my past.
I'll lay under my dim lamp light for hours,   just..... thinking, and hoping, dreaming, loving...

This idea of finding freedom.
Getting out of the stress of high school and graduating, being able to find home again, getting away from the crazy bitches called my parents....

Take me somewhere else.
Anyone. Anywhere.

xjessi