Burn out, Maybe - Kurt Cobain
Stay, will you? There are words I dare not speak but would like you to listen, still. So listen to me, will you? I’m too tired now, my friend. Each step forward is an effort to pull along a mountain of exhaustion, of suffocation, guilt and laziness. Each step forward is a cigarette burning a hole into my chest, or a needle piercing my veins. Oh, can’t you see how very tedious it is to fake it any longer? I think I’m dying, slowly, or maybe I’m just plain bored. Apologies, my friend, I know I can be irritable at times. So please be patient, will you? I think I’ve fallen out of tune with my music; I’m apathetic towards my passion and I seem to find no meaning whatsoever in my own petty existence. I hate myself. I hate my life. It’s like I’m swimming through a Déjà Vu: like I know all that is going to happen today, and the day next, and the next, for they’re all exactly the same. Breathe in. Breathe out. No great moments of ecstasy to make my heart race, no beautiful piece of art to take my breath away, I’m too bored! Boddah, I’m so sick and tired of myself, of the monotony and the lack of life in my life. Tell me, why don’t they punish the ones who fake happiness? ‘Death’ seems like a fair verdict for these lowlifes. There’d be a few less depressed souls and addicts loitering on the streets then. Huh.
I was here first. I have seen it all. And although I would never deny the existence of love and compassion in my life, I can’t help but find it utterly unexciting and clichéd. Sigh, I’m a creep and I hate myself. I repeat. I hate myself. I don’t have the urge to make music, to speak, to smile or to appreciate art anymore. I’ve been in too much pain for far too long to ever put in any more effort into the mundane. So remember, my friend, it’s always better to burn out that to fade away. Sigh, I love you, though. I really love you.
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