[ WP ] Write your thoughts - right now - as they 're developing and forming in your head .

Some days I feel like a pent up ball of energy – a ball of fucking rage at all the cunts I have the misfortune of sharing my resources with. Why do we enter relationships when they ’ re ALL going to end in a fucking mess with people metaphorically stomping on each other ’ s fragile hearts? Is anyone ’ s heart made of a sturdier material other than thin panes of fucking useless glass? I used to think that was a positive thing – wearing my heart on my fucking sleeve – honest, always, about how I feel. Easier to read than a children ’ s spelling book – A-for-apple, B-for-ball, C-for- well, you know, it should really stand for cunts. C-for-cut-up-hearts-and-wasted-tears. C-for-can ’ t-you-see-I ’ ve-moved-on? Moved on, FUCK. 
 
 
 
 Maybe I ’ m a manic depressive. Sometimes I get wrapped up in such a fucking frenzy about nothing. About something – about what again? 
 
 
 
 About scribbles. A continuous black line of mess, of junk, of fucking everything and anything. Confusion, rage, happiness, a blanket of self-doubt weaved in with self-worth, a manic woman – the fucking manic woman I am with feelings – fucking FEELINGS. And everything they ’ re not fucking worth. A scribble of friendships, of lovers, of people in between, of people not quite there, of people beyond, of people before everything wrapped up in the omnipresent ball of anger, insecurities – wrapped up in a ball of fuck. 
 
 
 
 I took the tube home today - the London fucking Underground - on the fucking black line of misery that they mask as the'Northern Line', and noticed the pattern on the floors of the carriages for the first time. Shattered blue and white shards, on a grey floor. Shattered like my heart and the thin, fragile panes of glass that made it up – once upon a time – once upon a time before fucking men and people with bird names – shattered like my heart if the shards were red and bleeding a deep, deep red the shade of the wine I drank tonight. 
 
 
 
 I don ’ t think I ’ m particularly depressed. I always manage to have a sense of optimism to me – a sense of it ’ s all going to be alright – silver linings, if you want to put it like that. But maybe that ’ s manic in itself – being so fucking happy – refusing to believe that anything could possibly go wrong – because I ’ m such a fucking escapist. That ’ s all I want to do really, escape – escape from our fucking bleak world of backstabbers, of liars, of people who hurt each other, of people who take without giving – of people who swallow you whole and spit you back out as half the person you went into the relationship, friendship, whatever with, watching you as you crawl around trying to piece together the fragile pieces of who you were and who you understood you were, shoving you stupid fucking useless excuses like ‘ you ’ re not who you used to be ’ when they were the ones that chipped away at who you were, who you are – hellloooo, are you even in there? Am I even in there? He said he ‘ fell for me ’ when I was independent – when I didn ’ t need him, well fuck, because that ’ s not how fucking life works is it – it ’ s not just a fucking bed of beautiful roses that are going to remain like that after you ’ ve laid in them again and again and again and again and a-fucking-gain. 
 
 
 
 Fuck. Just fuck. 
 
 
 
 
 And I don ’ t really understand why I ’ m a ball of rage – a ball of fury, especially once I have a couple of pints down me. But I am, I ’ m so explosive, I ’ m surprised I haven ’ t cracked at the fucking pressure, and I ’ m surprised I haven ’ t smashed glasses and torn at my own face and skin more often. Because I am comfortable in my own skin – I am comfortable – I am. But am I? Sometimes I don ’ t know anymore. I just don ’ t fucking know and I feel like me, my self worth was fucking robbed away by a fucking idiot who *deep breaths*. Well. Nothing about this can be healthy can it? Nothing at-fucking-all. 
 
 
 
 
 There ’ s a insanity to my calmness, sometimes. Something just simmering under, simmering to just snap and then uh-oh-ah-shit-well-good-bye. Snap like bones held together by nothing more than thoughts and feelings and the idea that you don ’ t want up upset other people. Sometimes I am so calm I freak myself out – because I know that under that layer of stoic simplicity there ’ s something more complex waiting to latch on something out there, when my breaths become more shallow, and my hands ball into little angry fists and I almost see red – almost, almost, but not quite – because unless I ’ m drunk I ’ ve usually managed to keep it deep under wraps. But I ’ m almost certain there ’ s something wrong with me, something that mars the inside of my soul – mars the part of me that is *sweet* that is *patient* that is fucking *thoughtful* – mars it with insane thoughts like *now, what would it be like to throw myself under a fucking bus? * Because would anyone miss me? Probably. Ha. But life goes on, and I think I ’ m ok with that. I think. I don ’ t know, because I haven ’ t died yet, have I? ← and there I go again, on some insane, inane, crazy trip where my brain runs at a thousand miles an hour and is feeding off something deep inside me I just WISH WASN ’ T FUCKING THERE.
