Dark Journal Entry When Dreams of Death Were Better Than Reality

Here is a dark journal entry when dreams of death were better than reality. Written when I couldn’t find enough doors to hit my head off when it strayed, or count the heartaches I caused myself.

March 12, 2016

when time moves on and that breath is gone we ask ourselves have I been doing it right all along?

when the seasons change and life is rearranged, I ask myself, if i am just going through the motions, suppressing the real me behind a barrier that taught me I would only be loved if I acted in a certain manner, or am I really living? am I really feeling what the privilege of being human should feel like? shouldn’t I feel this spark, some sort of wholeness, magic in me? have I become this boring, or is there a hidden part of me I fail to see?

what am I even?

I never asked to be here but here I am.. trapped inside a gradually decaying body, with a unwavering altered-consciousness that seems to prefer storing the dark information at the forefront of my mind opposed to the good stuff. a consciousness that was created by the very likes of humans, good or evil, throughout the eras, as information and ideas were stored into the human mind and shared aloud. one that will never grant me entire freedom.
and there is no end..my conscious energy will continue to absorb endlessly. nor was there a beginning for that matter, we have always been, and always will be, and things we learn quite possibly could be things we already know.

when you look at the human mind as a goal-striving machine, it’s quite fathomable to believe that whomever our creator is, created each of us with the ability to exceed our fullest potential as human, to be extraordinary.
add a built-in failure mechanism embedded deep into our subconscious over the years.. and you have a recipe for chaos. demons.

dark alleys through the journey of life..until I reach some kind of destination, find some kind of absolute, some solace. but where may this destination lie? Is it among me maybe or is it somewhere after this thing called life? will I be in debt to a life of curiously pondering endlessly or do I get to a point where I win the game of life, find where I am supposed to be?
will I fill this longing within’ me?
will I find my home?
or will I realise it’s been in me all along?