I Don't Envy Anyone Reading My Mind

It's bad enough being with my own thoughts.

I do not expect anyone to understand this blog. You should not expect to understand a word I am saying. And with that understanding, I launch into symbolism.

I hate the whispers and the whisperer. I know my past and present, so why do I understand my future so well? And why won't they understand? Don't they know the time is running out? Don't they see my reasons why? It's all out in the open. I am shouting from my mountain, but no one can find me. And why am I so upset, when I was the one who wanted it that way?

I am in limbo, unable to move. Trapped and burning, a mass of self-destruction. Just a ghost, or a specter of my undeterminable and yet utterly knowable future. I am doomed and I am the one with the keys in hand. But they keys are buried and I am long dead, so why am I surprised?

I can't see the future of my now, only of my then. I hate myself for not knowing, for not learning. I don't understand. Do I want to lose it all? Did I all along? And how can I flee when my escape is no longer? Because it is not the escape, but me, that has changed.

Then again, I haven't changed. I have never changed. How can he not see that? How can he not see this part of my pain? I made it so clear. I was always clear and changing, shifting the instant he saw through. And that's the way I always am. But how can I be so faithless in my hatred?

And the world is calling. How can I find my answer when I am like this?

That's the truest question. Maybe we only find it in the deep of the agony.

Goodbye.