The existential Manifesto

I have specified a small desire. tiny to people who don't feel it; who have not experienced the feeling of the head of the current, the detonation of ideas and thoughts that seem to be as superb as the most prominent artist. For me, this desire is huge, overwhelming and overwhelming, and it crushes me both inside and outside. The soul desires a fresh creation, and the brain screams... no, he screams, he screams so that if it was heard on this physical side, they would break the glass, glasses and eardrums. He's sniveling like a maniac in a delirium. He's telling me I can't compose a word, and even if I miraculously dig through the pit without the light he threw me into, it won't be worth it. Pathetic, repulsive, and Partick like child's scribbles. 4 months. 4 dragging like a dreary teaching of a burnt-out lecturer who has escaped for months. quite a few lousy attempts to conduct any writing that was already making sense. Sometimes he came up with an idea, better or worse, whatever, due to the fact that he had no right to be if he lacked the strength to even get out of bed. The flame in his heart went out, rising with all word written. Certainty in its abilities has gone to support individual else; individual who may have a chance to build something beautiful.

First there was sadness. A child's crying and unawareness, from which this disgusting sleaze from people who were to be a support and care.

Then it grew up a small bit, got any things. There have been attempts to alleviate tension, fit into the crowd, and there have been free measures to aid accomplish these objectives. They gave that feeling... no, not luck. Something I couldn't understand, but I realized that I've been searching for this state my full life.

Fifteen years. First visits to a psychologist, trying to save yourself from drowning in substances. At first it went well, and then the friends would come and say, "Come on, we'll throw something." And how do you refuse? Sixteen years. December 6th. First rape.

Next was purity. On and off, due to the fact that I continued to be around people who were raised in deviance, but it seldom happened. First love, motivation to change for individual you thought of as closer to your household than your mother. I didn't even miss it. It was just fun back then. It would be besides fairy tale to last longer. I left Him for individual else. I gave my heart, my body, all my money. Instead, I got force that can't be described here. He took my plans, my hope for a good future and my escape from the crap I've been drowning in since I was born. He took his passion, health, and the weakest sense of safety and stability. Attempted murder. Rape. Beating. Humiliation. Receiving values. I became a slut, a filthy waste, and a slave to something I called eternal love. And I'll be perfectly honest with you right now - I've never loved anyone more, which is why it didn't substance that I didn't love you back. I yet ran away.

Nineteen years. First abroad, to gain money, then to a bigger city for a better life. And again, I was drawn into what I called fun so far. The substance took me to the core. I felt like a hero from a novel, a man of incredible talent and wisdom, which many people lack. And it's not that I flatter myself. Those are the words of people I've met, and they've destroyed me in the end. I snorted, swallowed, drank, and wrote with large joy. In time, it was no longer enough, but the substance inactive held me and whispered to me that I was nothing without her.

Another escape. Mom, delight help. I came home, and so far I'm here, in a tiny area where I've been through the worst of pains, although I can't deny that this is my small planet and the only place I can go.

That scum inactive rules me. I quit. Almost. I'm looking for a replacement due to the fact that I can't be sober anymore. At least erstwhile I'm high, I'm smoothing the crap out of my fucking head. Besides, I have something to run from again. Betrayal. Some. From the individual who gave me so much love that it was hard to believe. Forgiveness is 1 of the stupidest decisions I've made, but that's love. It's not flattery. It's pure truth. fewer people love as much as I do. And knowing that I'd never meet a individual who loved me like that, it rips me apart from the inside.

On the way to psychiatry, hospitals, rehab trials, battles with mother, loneliness. I don't know if I've been better off with that guy than I am now. I will end this tragic stroke with a popular and misunderstood classic: a image of misery and despair.

Hot greetings from Hell,
Allen