I tend to be a little nostalgic at times; I long for the past no matter it was good, or not that pretty. Sometimes I believe that one day, I’d drive myself crazy and be like all those characters I’ve created. Maybe in someway; I am all these characters, maybe all these stories are projections of my subconscious mind. I’m not quite sure how or why I’ve written these stories, all I know is that I like doing it. It started with a bad break up a few years back and hasn’t stopped ever since. The past, the past. I remember almost every single detail of all the key events that transformed me into this person -or persona I am today. But that’s the thing about my mind, it’s always working, plotting, creating shit, and connecting thoughts together. I could start with a simple thought, a word or an image maybe. A tree, long and arched, thick and dark. A young boy in sweats running, sweating, not running from, but probably running to. With a heart beating of fear and excitement. Anger. A man, with tanned skin appeared behind the boy, whipping him with a plastic hose, telling him to run faster. The boy whaled in pain, arching his back like the thick stem of the dark tree. He ran with the tear drops running down his face. Something broke inside this boy, he died inside, but not quite so. After that hose incident and the ones that followed, after years and years, he never showed anyone his emotions. He bottled them up all inside, every time someone said something to him, every time someone hurt him in anyway, he kept a sold cold face but burnt inside. He never cried, not after the time he cried when the man whipped him with the hose. He wants to cry, but he forgot how. He forgot how to cry, when all he wants to do is just sit down with his head between his knees, and sob. But life goes on like a marry-go-round, but the thing is that he vomited on the second go.
Thoughts man, they’ll drive you crazy and you can’t do shit about them.