Unknown Recipient, 2
Added 2025-04-17 14:10:01 +0000 UTCWhenever I am summoned against my will to present myself to you, prostrate myself at your door**
**(instead of door read: dm box filled with countless others YOU are trying to possess, not the other way around,((you won’t by the way, I am rare, but in a stupid way.))
for your approval? Attention (though never given) should I continue to write about it?
Is this even the truth? Do these words hold anything resembling weighted reality? Or are they as meaningless as your own? They hold no action, they prove nothing, they carry—well, they carry feeling
(are those even honest indicators?)
A sensation you are incapable of perceiving, receiving, or even experiencing, in my belief!**
**(instead of belief read: ASSumption.)
I am sure there is a satisfaction in my torment, a victory in the wounds doled out upon my psyche, left by your invisible, insecurity stroking hand—That prevents me from maintaining stasis.
I am wounded and rewounded all by myself by myself— in this ridiculous circus of improbability.
Question! If someone cared about you, and had true feelings, perhaps it would demonstrate itself in action, like manic letters, madly scrawled drawings, attempts at insane action— but when there is merely silence and weightless words, that is truly nothing, is it not?
Or is it the soundness of resignation!
How I would love resignation to defeat and best me so deftly and completely, putting out my throbbing imagination, forcing fascination to face r e a l i t y. And yet, how ridiculous the goof is pretending to be wounded by a lack of something, when that in it of itself is the proof resignation so desires and seeks.
Perhaps these aren’t for you, all this evidence, or pourings-out brought about by this devouring ache of inaction. This page is a proxy, a dummy, a place to put the heart of a fool, for when I glance upon all that you’ve done, there’s no evidence that you ever loved— at least not madly.
