Monday, November 15, 2004

Murmurs From the Nightshiftee

Mumurs from the Nightshiftee First of all, I would like to commend my dear friend Ailil for being dead inside. Not trying to be cryptic here, it's just that I feel so proud of myself for finally converting someone that being dead inside is one of the most lethal way of protecting one's self in this high grade bitch of a world.
but frankly, being dead inside is hard to achieve. it would take every ounce of self discipline and conditioning to learn how not to just care. unless my memory still serves me right, there is also some kind of process that involves achieving this status that i've been gloriously into now for the past couple of years.

first, i've been mute. unable to speak. unable to write. i have the ability for it, yes, but not the capacity. because that was the hardest part. it was like pushing an ill-fitted corkstopper into the mouth of a wine bottle. it had been like that. it was a slow and painful death. all that air, filling up my lungs. no more room left to breathe. that's how i died. i died quietly. without any sound. i didn't even put up a fight. i welcomed death. and it welcomed me.

that's as far as i can remember. looking back, after the period of not feeling anything, all i see through my grotesque kaleidoscopal memory are casual bed-hopping, and beer slugging activities, that frankly, was not as glamorous as one might expect.

people would often ask me how did i ever manage not to ever feel anything, how i could take everything so casually? i just shrug. it really still is a mystery. maybe it's because of the painful blow that i've received that killed every nerve in me, instantly. often, i would just softly say that i've become used to it that i rarely remember what it felt like to feel. i don't even know if i still have that capacity to feel. it gets lonely, yeah. but just like everything else, it will someday end or you just have to get used to it.

i already receive my ultimate test but i won't go into details over it, but if you like, you could read all about it here.

people could call me bitter. a narcissistic bitch. a hag. or whatever the hell they would want to call me. it doesn't really matter. i'd still be dead inside. and the dead don't feel.

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