Memoirs of a Crazy Bastard: Memo 1: Remember to put flowers on my grave

Would people come to my mound of a world to conversate with a dead man?

Memo 1: Remember to put flowers on my own grave


If only there was a perfect solution for everything. if only there was a perfect way to lose weight, and easy way to
die,and easy way to pull myself from the depths of my depression. I don't want to feel this way. I ask myself everyday why I can't stop feeling like this...feeling like there's no light to guide me. I dwell into my mind to find a piece of sanity,
but end up empty handed everytime. My mind is just an endless stream of dead conscienceness, that i wish that i would one
day find the end of. I cut, I purge, I try to find an easy solution to my life problems. I drink to feel normal, I fuck to
feel wanted. I grow tired of seeing all the "normal" people going about their "normal" lives of love, loss, and regret.


I had a anxiety attack the other day. I couldn't stop shaking, and i was crying endlessly. What the hell is wrong with me? I'm doomed to follow the road to insanity into my shallow grave. My grave is shallow because the grave diggers haven't finished digging my grave they started 19 years ago. They weren't prepared for my early departure to the after life of nothingness. If i'm only half buried, does that mean that i'm only half dead? Would people come to my mound of a world to conversate with a dead man? I tell myself, "I can't see myself without my friends, but I can see my friends without me."
When i'm completely 6 feet under will my friends come to see me, or will I be "that guy we used to hang out with"? I see
my death as one less drug to rot away the trust and love between my friends. There will be one less drug among the uppers,
downers, hallucingenics, and feel good remedies. People will say that I lived a short life, but they will never know the
memories and experiences that has scarred me for a lifetime, plus one. They will never know since i'm such a hard book to
read...If only they read the right pages then they would know the hidden, underlying truth of a tormented soul.


Sometimes i feel like a walking corpse that feeds off the people who hate me, as much as the people that love me. I love the feeling of belonging as much as the feeling of being alone. I need the balance of love and hate to keep me within my boundries of insanity Where i feel safe. Where I belong. If I belong anywhere it would be in a sanitorium, where no one knows where sanity starts or ends, where anything can be real, and everyone is bound by nothing. I wish I was ignorant to emotion and i could sit in a stuper: not having to worry about my next fling, or going to work, or who's fighting who in my crazy entourage of family and friends.

Comments

No comments yet, why not leave one of your own?



Leave a Comment or Share Your Story

Please Sign In. Only community members can comment.


 
SMITH Magazine

SMITH Magazine is a home for storytelling.
We believe everyone has a story, and everyone
should have a place to tell it.
We're the creators and home of the
Six-Word Memoir® project.