help

The Lies We Tell Ourselves

I am a worthwhile human being.

No you’re not. You ignore your own problems and other people’s. What you think you do to help people is no more than a meaningless and empty statement. There is always something else on your mind than what you should be doing, or what you are doing. You cannot set yourself on anything. Any ideal is never good enough. More is always yearned for. You berate people and you don’t realise it. You’re not worthwhile.

• People want to help me if I’m in trouble.

No they don’t. The people you think care about you don’t care nearly as much as you think they do. Your problems are yours and yours alone. Sure, you can talk about it all you want. But, in the end, no one will come to your aid if you tell anyone you’re going to end yourself. They might offer a kind word or a plea, but that’s what people do. They want to feel good about themselves, they don’t want to help. People stroke their egos trying to help people, giving them false hope and advice where it is not wanted and won’t help. And anyone who’s genuine will have given up long ago by now, because they realise the same things. No one will really help you.

• I have friends who love me.

No you don’t. Friends vanish at a moment’s notice. A best friend can turn their back on you for someone else. And if you turn your back, you’ll get stabbed in it instantly. You can feel more for someone than they feel for you, and that’s always the case. You could run a mile for someone and they’d move an inch for you. But it goes both ways – someone would run a mile for you and you’d barely move for them. You have no friends.

• Tomorrow will be a better day.

No it won’t be. Tomorrow will be worse. The pain you’ve felt today will be doubled by tomorrow. You can fool yourself into thinking you’re having a nice time – you can go out to a restaurant, you can play an online game, you can write, draw, compose or produce, but it’s all in vain. Tomorrow is just as bad as today, if not worse. What you tell yourself is only a layer, a thin layer that you don’t want to think past. You don’t want to ruin your own day. But as painful as today is, tomorrow will bring something worse. It won’t be a better day.

• I’ve learned from my mistake.

No you haven’t. You will continue to make that mistake over and over again, subjecting yourself to the definition of insanity, when in reality you should have learned to avoid this mistake before you made it. You don’t think enough, you assume too much and you trust too much. Mistakes are constant, as long as life exists on this earth. And you never learn from them. You just keep doing what hurt you before. You never learn.

• I am attractive.

No you’re not. In the fleeting moments you might have where your ego expands, and you catch yourself in the mirror, you apparently fail to notice your chewed lip, your uneven eyebrows, your tired eyes, your fat neck, your terrible hair, your awful posture, your depreciating eyelashes and your exposed wounds. You believe your clothes fit and work, though, from behind, you look a complete wreck. Your shoes are scuffed and broken, and your makeup is lopsided. You think you will turn heads with your beauty, maybe meet a stranger who will change your life. But you won’t. It’s a stupid wish. You are not attractive.

• People listen to me.

No they don’t. You are invisible and ignored. You can write a speech full of promises in flowery language but no one will listen. You can take pictures you’ve spent hours preparing for. But no one will look at them. You are unappreciated, and you deserve no appreciation. No one listens to you.

• I am talented.

No you’re not. Any talent or skill you have is vastly inflated by your own deluded mind. You can design websites over months only to have it ignored. No one cares about your talent. No one wants to waste their life praising you for doing something anyone could do. Talent does not exist. Whether art-, music-, writing-, business-, politics-, food- or science-related, it doesn’t matter. People have seen everything before and they expect nothing from you. You are not talented.

• The things I do make a difference.

No, they do not. You can donate a vast amount of money to a charity but that won’t matter. Any needy man, child or animal will get less than 0.01% of what you donated put forward to help them. Your existence does not improve anyone’s life, nor does it matter. You will die and be forgotten, and no one will mourn you. The world will keep spinning without your input. You make no difference.

I am a good person.

No you’re not. You are selfish, dreadfully so. You are greed-oriented. You are an addict. Your help means nothing. Your help is meek at best. You smile at everyone though detest them inside. Nobody knows what you look like when you truly care. Any tears you cry for someone else are tears of selfishness, you want to prove to yourself you care about them, so you cry with them. This makes you feel good for feeling emotion. You are selfish and greed-driven, intent on making yourself content. You are not a good person.

How do you feel, you fucking liar?

Advertisements

V: Suicide Room

IV: Suicide Room

 

Disclaimer:

This file is not a pre-approved Suicide Room Case. However, it has become available to the public. It was discovered, and has been encrypted in such a way that hacking attempts have only managed to reveal unwilling words that do not work within any context. It is clearly a well-hidden file.

It has been released to the public under these conditions:
1) The main goal of releasing this file to the public is to recruit a larger number of people who could potentially figure out what it inside the document.
2) The contents of the document may not be used publicly until pre-approved by the Suicide Room.
3) Any readable and understandable contents of this document, if discovered, are to be reported immediately.
4) Any contents found unreported will be met with stern punishment.
5) Any names or assigned numbers within the document will be thoroughly investigated upon report and discovery.

To attempt to read the document, please select it below:

ENCRYPTED_DOCUMENT

Your co-operation on this endeavour is appreciated.

 

 

Hint: Pay special attention to the words used in III: Suicide Room

X: Scrawl

IX: Scrawl

 

IT’S NO USE. NO USE CALLING. THOSE WHO I PRETEND LOVE ME ARE USELESS.

PLEASE, KILL ME IF YOU CAN, I WON’T STRUGGLE.

I WILL BE HAPPILY SHOT DOWN – IF I COULD STOP BREATHING FOR A MINUTE, AND ALLOW MY UNWELCOME SOUL TO PASS THROUGH MY HATING LIPS, I WOULD AND I WOULD NOT MISS IT.

GOD DAMN, SOMETIMES THE PAIN TAKES ME OVER COMPLETELY UNTIL WORTHLESSNESS SETS IN TO THE POINT WHERE ASKING FOR HELP IS POINTLESS. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO.

TEARS RUST MY CHEEKS UNTIL I AM AS RED AND BROKEN AS DAYLIGHT.

WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

I CANNOT SCREAM FOR FEAR OF BRINGING MORE UPON MYSELF.

I CANNOT LET IT OUT FOR FEAR OF BEING ALONE FOR FAR TOO LONG AGAIN.

I CANNOT TELL THOSE I DON’T KNOW BECAUSE THEY HAVEN’T THE TIME NOR THE ENERGY.

WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

I AM SAFER LIKE THIS.
LONELIER
BUT SAFER LIKE THIS.

I WILL HAPPILY DIE, ROT AND FEAST WITHIN THE EARTH.

JUST KILL ME.

JUST BURY ME.

IT’S WORTH IT TO BE FREE OF THIS.

JUST LET ME DIE.

WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

HO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

O WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

HELP ME.

HELP ME.

HELP ME.

HELP ME.

HELP ME.

Which to Continue?

Now – while I haven’t got a lot of attention, there are somewhat regular visitors who read my work. And, once again, I need your help.

In order to try and pull myself out of this depression borne of Writer’s block, which, in turn was triggered by my completion of “Hello”, I’ve written two short deviations.

You might recognise who’s talking. Or you might not. If you do recognise who they are, thank you.

 

This is the first one – “Guilt”

YM 1 Guilt

 

This second one is “Mistake”.

YM 1 Mistake

 

They’re quite short, for two reasons:
1) People don’t have a lot of time to read things, really, do they?
2) I really can’t do anymore. I have no direction. I have nothing. I have some ideas, but they’re centring around something I’m very, very reluctant to do.

So here’s what I want from you –
Please pick which one you prefer, “Guilt” or “Mistake”, and comment it.
Or, if you like or dislike aspects from them, please tell me.
I feel so dull and numb to writing at the moment that I don’t notice these things.

If people prefer one more than the other, I’ll make it my goal to create something out of that one.

Thank you.

SERIOUSLY, help me. Help me. Help me.

How much must I breathe to wake up with gunfire in my ears? How much of my body, life, soul must I pay for that? How much must it be for the gunfire to be coming from me? A single metal pellet, fuelled by nothing but hate, I’ll stand and force it out of my skin.

And watch it fly.

And watch it strike. Raise my other hand, a machine gun, no longer fingers but a cannon. I’ll step back, between two buildings, and raise and fire. And raise and fire again. Oh, good Lord, I’ll let go several thousand rounds in a matter of minutes. What am I shooting, what am I shooting at? Is it so much? Oh, I’ll tear through buildings, I’ll desecrate concrete with these metallic fists of mine.

More, longer, faster. Fuel, hatred and anger. I am no longer the silent fool you took me as. I am fury, I am the metal in the fire.

I can be the metal in the fire. How! Shoot, shoot, and keep myself scowling. No laughter, no joy. No psychopathic tendency to let a cheer fly from my throat. Concentrate. Calculate. And fire. I am angry, I am furious.

I want to wake with that gunfire, I want to hear it burn through the metal and stone, I want to know how far it flies through the other side, how long until it crashes to the ground. I want to stand on the edge of the world and scream it all, after I’ve destroyed everything in my wake, when there is no one around to accuse me of myself. Give it out! And let it destroy! Come on, darkness, come on. I’ll shoot you, too.

I’ll step off, I promise, I swear it, when I’m finished. A mercy killing followed by a self-sacrifice to end the world. My scream will be friction, my scream will be power. Friction and power, and bring him back to me! Why, why did you leave me! Why did you leave my head!

 

My frustrations are real, my block is too real. I can touch it, it’s inside me, a huge forbidden weight that strips me from Automatic to Catastrophic. I am Catastrophic. I am Catastrophic! I’ll fucking get him back, I’ll try anything. I’ll work everything. I’ll draw him until I know each inch of skin. I’ll draw him until I know the true colour of his greasy hair. I’ll draw him from the inside out to know how he works, maybe he’ll come back to me.

Oh, God, Yestin! Where the fuck did you go? Where the fuck did you run off to? I have no idea if you died, or if you lived, I have no idea what happened to you. I want you to return, for I am dangerous without you. I am furious. I need you to be my guardian. I need to write with you. I must write with you. You’re the only way I can move forward.

My disgusting guardian angel. I cannot tell what you are. Human, demon? Do you love children for what they are or do you love eating them? Are you alive or dead? Can you die? You made out like you could.

“Enjoy it. / For it could be my last.”

Yes, yes, apparently that child was your last. Did you know when you wrote that down? Did you know that, and I didn’t? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me? But you can’t have known, surely, because… because you didn’t know you were to become obsessed. You didn’t know you’d retreat into your dying mind with her. Is that what happened? Or did her soul… did you manage to inhale it in time, did it live in your mind, did it cause your obsession?

Yestin, I don’t care for the answers, actually. All I wish, all I ever want now, is for you to return to me. I cannot get over this. You were the best, the worst and everything in between. You gave me the drive, the power and the superiority to present something truly unreal to the world. And yet, I cannot get you back.

I’ve tried writing with Lull, his poems. I wanted to know his mind, because his life is interesting too. But it’s not yours. I couldn’t truly get into it. I wrote about a nobody walking a line three times. The line between life and death. And I never got that. The concept, sure. But, past that, nothing.

Where are you? I spread out your manuscript, I look at it, and I begin crying. I read the first words, Yestin, and I feel depressed and sad. I miss you.

“Hello. / Am I / scared? / scarred? / sacred?”

And that’s enough to ruin me for the rest of the day. I hold your manuscript close to me, hoping that if I never let it go, you’ll return to me. You’ll give me something to work with. I imagine you walking behind me, I talk to you as I walk, I tell you to put your huge hand on my hip so I know you’re close. I walk along the street, sad, angry, in denial, talking to the face only I can imagine.

Please, Yestin.

Return to me. I want you and I need this. Please. Please.

I didn’t even know you. I know you so much better now.

“I’m content to squat here. With my fluorescent lights.”

Don’t go. I need you. Wherever you are. Please.