Split in Two.

Getting stoned, alone, in my bedroom, was often the way I started my weekends. Away from everyone, staring at my roof.  I’d often fantasised about colouring it in a muddy green colour. I stared, imagining it around me, feeling the wall and its texture, smelling its toxic aroma. Yes, I was definitely high now.  I looked over at my window, deciding to open it letting the cool evening air into my already dank cold bedroom. I went back to my bed and leaned against the wall dragging in a deep breath of marijuana. I closed my eyes for a moment.  Nothing seemed right until I had that first drag all that time ago. I remember the way I’d tried to look cool, even though no one had been there to see it at the time. I remembered the way I had giggled myself silly at everything around me. I felt so fulfilled by such a little thing. I felt whole, for once in my life. I opened my eyes as I took the next drag. I blew out the smoke slowly, watching it filter out; into the air. I sighed deeply and wished that I could keep all my thoughts to myself forever.  I thought about all those people out there, stressing over wives and girlfriends and boyfriends and jobs and lives. I thought about mine, so uncomplicated, I went to school and came home. I took another deep drag and sighed out grey smoke. I’d been called all the names under the sun at that place. “Emo” “punk” “Goth” “dickhead” “Arsehole”  “Gay” so many hurtful names, I often thought about getting the kids back, the ones who say them. But then a thought hits me.
‘You know why they’re like that! They’re so insecure and worried about their lives they know nothing but making everyone else’s lives depressive as well.’
To pity such people is all I know.  If they get no reaction, no fight to win, it hurts more to them then any damage I could do physically, but still, there is always the dream that I could hit them over and over again, breaking their nose and jaw, their teeth cracking beneath my fist, I’d lean over them and stare into their eyes which I’d dreamed where filled with the blood of their broken senses. I leaned back onto my bed, thinking about lighting another joint, having finished my first one. I got out my writings and started to write about my urges, the way it takes hold of me, slowly creeping up my spine, making my fists ball. So much hatred for life, it cheated me, it’s taken so much from me. I took a deep breath. ‘Calm down’ I told myself ‘the last thing you need is to have a panic attack, getting angry is exactly where that’s going to take you. You know those people; they’re not worth the time of day, thinking about.’ I kept staring into my roof. I always imagined it to be my minds blank canvass on which my whole imagination drew its energy. In my mind that roof was a vast abyss of nothing, yet at the same time it was life and death and hopes and dreams, it was also everything that I made it. I allowed my mind to wonder from instant to instant wishing that even through all the hatred I held for this world and people in it, that maybe one person would come for me that someone who is just like me, with the same feelings and anger and passion for dark. I threw that thought out of my mind, annoyed at myself for allowing such thoughts. I didn’t need anyone else, everything I needed I could give to myself. I was defiant in my ways and even my own breaking hearts words wouldn’t move me, I knew that people were bad, I didn’t trust them, I didn’t like them, I didn’t want them.  I reminded myself of this and allowed the one last sigh of my breaking, crying, lonely heart before escaping that room, jumping out my window into the dark world.