They Think I'm Crazy

FOREWORD

…I resented social barriers as artificial distinctions made by the strong to determine those from the weak, but the distinction of what is strong and weak are never to be settled, so thus what becomes of strong and weak if the definition is but non-existent. I choose not to follow supposed conditioned social barriers, but base my own barriers on those who respect and disrespect. I resented man just as much as I loved man, this world was not made for barriers and labels, labels my essence became identified as. The trees know no prejudice, and the waves know only of water not of rivers and seas and the power one possessed and one didn’t. The stars regardless of how bright others shone never competed to be the one lighting up the sky for they knew the light they cascaded upon us together was brighter than any light they could produce as one. Labels, barriers and the power of man became the death of me, why live in a world so perfectly flawed when I could shower my ashes upon the natural ground, pristine with dirt…

Love,

Aria x

INTRODUCTION

I carve, back and forth at the skin with scissors, sometimes a knife. The sight of my blood dripping and painting the blade is oddly satisfying. At 18 this shouldn’t be such a pinnacle habit of my life, but the fact is it is. 14 scars stripe my wrist, 14 and counting, 2 on my thigh and one at the back of my head, though that scar is a different story. They think I’m crazy, I see it in their eyes, the way the colour drains from their faces when I roll up my sleeve to relieve a scratch, and the absurdity of it all is that I don’t know who ‘they’ are. ‘They’ are strangers, ‘they’ know nothing yet sympathise with me, assuming my own narrative without even having knowledge of my name. Its Aria by the way, in case you was wondering. Fact is scars aren’t beautiful, especially when it is you who creates them, and ‘they’ don’t let me forget it. But I’ve only myself to blame, though I didn’t ask for this, I do this, consider it a coping method for a mentality so disordered and victimized.

I lie in my single bed, curled up between sheets, hiding from the world and the people that fill it. Attempting to block out the sunlight of an oddly warm English day, though it protrudes its way through the cracks in the blinds, only offering diffusion from the outside world, not complete isolation. When the depression kicks in, it destroys any semblance of hope or motivation and so my abilities extend to being able to lie paralyzed, bleeding, staring at walls, in a state of unconscious awareness. I often wish for somebody to be with me to comfort me, hold and care, but even if the possibility presented itself I would repel it and push it with a venom so poisonous, human companionship would forever stay out of sight, knowing that even if it was unadmittedly wanted, it would never be accepted.

I’m curious as to what it feels like though, to be held in arms that wouldn’t later bruise and abuse you. The thought continually piques me, like a haunting spirit, one that’s harmless but given time will have you scratching at walls to find an escape from it, seems the only way is to confront it.