Oh Mr. Brizell, what have you done now?

Does time ever stop?

I’m clinging onto the clock hands, but i’m slipping. you’re all watching, waiting for me to slip. i know no one’s gonna catch me.

i’m lost in the hate of myself.

the nightmares are back.

Since June nothing has changed.

i’m stuck in a painfully torturous cycle.

ben goddamn you talk like a man all out of hope.

yes, dear reader i am.

i’ve lost too much in recent times. everyone expects the impossible out of me. they expect me to change, but that’s the one thing i can’t do.

thank god futures have an ending, because it’s looking pretty dire right now. a self-referential death just feels right, i have to cling onto the trauma of the past. damn all those exes. i don’t thank anyone that the worst one i have to face everyday? hardly a traumatic event really ben? none of you are telling me something i don’t know. the guilts reaching a boiling point.

i’ve done bad shit, but at the end of the day i just wanted to feel better. but now i just feel worse, jokes on me huh?

if time could speak, what would it say to me?

i know i’m the fool, stumbling into every situation with nothing but the cockiness of an immature kid, and the wit of wilde. i know i disappoint my parents, but they believe i’ll be here in 5 years time. i don’t. so i’m making my plans temporary- because i’m trapped in the mind of myself.

i’m afraid i’m pushing my girlfriend away. i just keep repeating the same mistakes. please don’t go. i can change. at least i want to. my intentions are good. i’m only human, so i’m very fucking flawed.

fuck this blog isn’t my therapist, yet here i am yet again. we’ll never meet reader, maybe that’s a good thing, maybe not?

if you’re reading this, and you’re one of the few people i’ve linked this blog to. then i’m surprised you ever checked again or even clicked on the link in the first place.. it’s not like we remember all these words. i sure as hell don’t.

i’m living in the middle-class, and i’ve got everything to worry about. you just can’t see what i see.

‘Ben please reply’

Someone’s trying to tell me something, it’s just going straight over my head. all my talk is even pushing me away, that means i’m talking to myself. so i guess i’m facing inevitable loss.

it’s not changed really has it? apparently i’m just letting it all out, taking the lid off, letting the pills of my mental health spill onto the table. that’s a reference to me being on antidepressants, but they want me off those. i don’t think i want to be off them. but my choices slowly aren’t becoming that of freewill. ultimately i know i’m not making progress.

i’m expected to be amicable to the people that hurt me. and they still make me out to be the asshole for my attitude to them. fuck all this shit they present to me on the table, i got the past speaking in snake to me.

nowadays i’ve got mac miller’s watching movies with the sound off on repeat. it reminds me of so much, but so little. i remember a girl and a boards game cafe.

fuck i can’t even picture the facial features of her anymore. fuck i’m losing myself. fuck i lost myself.

there’s a girl called emily, i love her. but is love really enough to keep her here through my spiralling?

dear reader tell me something, give me an answer, a sign?

No i thought not.

we’re all as fucked as each other. i wish i could change that but my situation is dire. all my experimentation with life’s vivacity has backfired, and i’m bleeding out because of the results. the ghost reveries of my past, scream louder than the howls of xasthur. (black metals always been hip, we just look to the wrong niches).

if things had have been different, it all would have been okay.

my self destruction is because i’m my own worst enemy.

i’m asking for help, but i don’t want to know anything. i can’t be taught, because i believe it’s all too fruitless already.

isn’t it funny, we’re defined by the failings of our parents?

time’s running out on me.

i think i lost my way.

that jokes on me though.

laugh, i dare you.

i would too.

hell i do now.

it’s hard to give a fuck about next week when i think i might be dead tomorrow.

foreshadowings underrated

the hospitals loud when you’ve overdosed.

permanence speaks in solitude.

ian curtis died.

as of ben brizell?

well that guy’s a stranger round here.

even i couldn’t tell you about his true fate.

sorry about that one.

shit you know, i apologise too much.

sorry about that.


I’m just stuck in a circle,

constantly pacing around it.

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