The burden of carrying one's own corpse to its grave is singular. It's as unique as when I embody my pains into the figure of a cold hand running its fingers down my body. Tracing up and down my shivering skin like some pervert breathing heavily down my neck, my spine, my lips, inflating my sorrows and pressing deep into my skin. Everyday I take a step closer to the ditch where I'll dump myself,a lifeless, indifferent girl. Allowing the weeds to grow and clutch my body in a way that it would suffocate me. Veil myself with the greenery as maggots feast on my drained heart. They'll smell the gashes on my ankles and salavate, nodding happily to one another "This is it, this is it" they'll say. And I'll glance to the side watching the passing shadows strolling by unaware of how much I am decomposing even with a wakeful eye. They're uncaring of the pale faces and fixed necks watching the sidewalk cracks, refusing to look at the world craddling the misery conceiving the sadness. Sometimes I count my fingers to pass the time. No reason before or after, just a welcoming to the absurd. Subconscious impulses disturb my sleep. Never again did I dream of flying. Now I lye awake envisioning the after glow of a freshly cut gash. But then again I have everything in the world except my ability to believe. And without that, i choose to endure paper cuts over conformity which is questionabley constructive. Frustration arises when I write for others. I stumble on my sentences because I'll never truly know what they want. I can only imagine Infinity contradicting itself in every direction resulting in blank pages and tear streaked cheeks. Not a word is typed. Being conscious of judgement makes me weak in the throat as i stutter to reply. How can you ask me concrete questions when there exists no concrete answers? i should invest in horse blinders but sadly they wont fit around my thoughts. In the meanwhile, before i think up another metaphorical and unachievable solution for my perpetual hesitancy, I'll have to deal with a handicapped social life. For an essay I have to write on citizen Kane, I thought up the imagery of a surgeon stitching together bloody limbs to construct the ideal human. Fragments of recollections (flashbacks) adhesively conjoined to create a coherant master piece. And my essay makes no sense. I over-analyzed words and tenderized with the thesauraus. And it makes me sick. This lack of sleep, she's beating me in the race for sanity.
Spooner, you're right about the spellings and the errors with the clauses and commas and such, but I would keep the fragments and the "And" in the beginning of the sentence for style. You have to allow some adjustments with poetic license and all that. I thought it was good, but a little morbid.
