53

See the colours.
Overwhelming, isn't it?
Ripping up a piece of paper, the size of your floor, and sticking it to your walls.
Those colours, those shredded bits of paint on white... Scary, isn't it?
I guess it shouldn't be.
These colours, this humanity, it shouldn't reduce you to hyperventilation, it shouldn't force you to sit and watch it in awe.
But it does.
Doesn't that just... show how strong it was?
How wrong it is?
Even for yourself?
Doesn't that just... It makes me sad to think it.
To think I had just fallen back into something I swore never to return to.
Senses shut off. Mind in control.
It's cold, you know?
You feel so... Dull sometimes.
And you feel tired in place of sorrow.
The harder the pain would have hit, the more lethargic you become.
You just don't feel much... You feel because you should, not because you are, so everything is just... Duller.
Colder.

Numb.
Nothing changes, everything is so static, and as each day goes by, you find it harder and harder to find things to keep that hollow feeling away.
Sometimes in the night when I was alone and writing, I'd wake up.
I'd feel again.
And I'd become so scared, so upset, so at a loss.
In the morning it would be as if nothing happened.
That was every morning.
Every single morning was the same.
Every. Single. Morning.
Wake up, feel hollow, and then, feel nothing happily.
I missed this.
I'll say that, I'll say it; I missed emotion.
I missed feeling alive, properly.
I missed something that felt real, that felt human.
I missed being able to be frivolous and expressive rather than so...
Practical.
Cold.
Strong.
I missed being able to hear a song, and it reducing me to tears.
I missed it's ugliness, and equally fear it's return.
But I'm sick of being numb.
I'm sick of not having anything that I'm afraid to lose.
I'm sick of being so solitary, so...
Trapped.
I'm sick of the good things being hurt, I'm sick of the great people not being allowed to understand, I'm so, so, so sick of pushing the best things in life away.
I'm sick of pretending everything is so fucking OK.
It's not.
Everything is not fucking OK, and know what?
For now, that's all I need, to just... be allowed to say that to myself.
Everything is not OK.
I am not OK.
Heck, feeling numb for another year, and this time unaware?
Things couldn't be OK with that happening.
Time does not heal all wounds.
In fact, if left alone, time alone can cement those wounds into the figure you grow to become.
I used to feel so much.
So much it was very nearly crippling, but it was better than this.
It was real, human, and because of those vulnerable foundations I was not left alone now.
I had found the people that would still be there when I no longer was for myself.
I have to learn to not be afraid of those torn pieces of colour, and so I stick them to my walls.
I place them above my door, at the bottom of my bed, at the side of my room, so every day I wake up, they are there.
That fear is there, and that awe is standing alongside.
You wake up to emotion thrown in your face, forcing you to experience it.
You cannot deny what is right before your eyes.
I refuse to deny this.
No more.
I've pushed away enough already, there is too much that has been lost, and far too much to lose.
The monochrome world is too lonely to be eternally lived.