I will have my death of you.
The gloom is always so vast and shrouding.
Its intricate spirals lure me in,
whirl me around - and lunge me out.
As if I am Satan.
Maybe I will take the label
as a compliment. I will fill myself
with death and hate and
love. Love for me. And me only.
How kind. How confident. I suppose
it would be nicer that way.
To only depend on oneself.
Push yourself further, forward —
use the lunge as a spring
to set you off
into eternal independence.
If I do not reach the state of God in a year,
my dears, then I am not good enough.
Boil in your own hatred:
you will be left thrilled
to have killed the parts you despise.
Trust me. I have no reason to lie.
Try it first. Then you will see
just where unlimited power cries from. Free.
Release it all, and let it fall,
like pollution, like waste,
just like the person you adored, who for you,
was through—felt nothing but distaste. Haste.
Do you need them?
You must remove this first.
That is your only requirement
to live a life where you no longer thirst
for their attention, crave their presence.
You are no peasant. You do not,
you do not depend on anything.
You are everything.
Tell yourself that and live in it.
Or else you will never reach it.
Are you, or are you not infinite?
My drama teacher told me that to show life experience, if I really want to audition with my monologue from The Glass Menagerie, I have to feel the same as Tom Wingfield in having a desire for escape and a more poetic life than the one I already have. But he has no idea that the whole purpose of my audition acts as a key to escape. I am ready to take on anything that allows me to leave. I just know it.
Being good is not good enough.
You want anything that moves, but not me. No. Never fucking me.