I fill my empty self with the words of another one’s sorrow. I feel no emotion, but this is good enough for now. Music is a substitute for feelings. Lyrics are the thoughts of another human being, conceived and drafted, elaborated and simplified, purchased and abused. I can’t say if this is a good thing. Good…what is that?
We think we live in a society that knows good from bad. But we’re just repeating what they’re repeating. Do you think you really understand? I don’t understand. Everything is so specialized and systemized, I’m afraid there’s no room for anything else but work and cheery façades. You ask me to learn, to read, to write, and to pass tests. I can pass, but you fail to realize that I am empty, and the work I just gave you is nothing.
That’s all I’ve ever given. Nothing. All my life, I just took and took, and everyone just stood by and watched without saying a word. Why didn’t you tell me about world hunger? Why didn’t you tell me about Darfur? Why didn’t you tell me that my planet was dying? Why didn’t you tell me that I’m polluted? Why didn’t you tell me when I was young and strong enough to fight all of it?
Why didn’t you know? I knew before you did. I thought you knew everything. You’re supposed to know, right? You’re supposed to guide me. You’re supposed to advise me. You’re supposed to teach me how to live, not how to die. You’re supposed to love me.
They call me unique, talented, artistic, smart, sometimes even beautiful. Why do you agree with them? They don’t know me. They don’t know that I wished death upon mankind, or that I wished it upon myself. They don’t know that I don’t give a damn about animals and their rights. They don’t know that I don’t believe in human rights. We don’t have any. Why should we when we oppress everything else?
I used to say my heart was a waste of emotions, but now it just looks like a wasteland. I’m apathetic and insensitive. All that’s left is small spark of anger, ready to catch fire and burn it all away. But how does this fiery wasteland produce water? Yes, water. It comes out of my eyes, and it tastes like the sea. It must be a magical creation, like life.
Did you know that life still remains a mystery, and that the only explanation for it comes from religion? And now, religion plays the role of the seed of death. But perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps there is nothing wrong with religion, and that the mistakes merely lie in its followers. It amazes me how humans can take something so perfect and pure and use it as a weapon.
I screamed on Wednesday. I screamed more than once, because one was not enough effort for what I wanted to happen. I wanted to scream myself away. I wanted to somehow convert myself into sound, or perhaps dissolve in the air. I wanted everything in me – my energy, my matter, my existence – to remove themselves. I think I almost succeeded, because now I am almost existing.
