Not a facebook thing.

There are so much pent up frustrations but they say no one wants to read about sadness and disappointments on facebook. Funny, isn't it? A place where people report practically everything that happens in their lives is not one should pour out their woes. A secret forgotten blog seems like the only viable alternative for such a task. Revisiting an outlet to air out the emotions. I fear that I have too much to say but no one is reading so it would not matter. No reputation to speak of anymore. People disappear one by one. Sometimes, it just would not suffice to write in a little notebook and later chuck to a side. Only to resurface during a clean out. Stories good and bad. I am a psychopath, come to think of it. I wish I could kill but I did in subtle ways. I leave wounds and dark memories in the people I thought I loved. Like them, I live again and again, opening new chapters after each kill. In retrospect, who killed who? Suppose we could never tell. The new stories I would not know because the chapters do not include me. No one's story has a Me in the present. I have simply disappeared. I tried to filter through their memories, leaving traces of my existence. The debt collectors remember me well. I serve good purpose for them. Reminding them that they do their job well, hassling me ever so often. I need a job to distract me from unnecessary thoughts and pay my bills. Yet, before that could happen, the accumulation of repressed conflicts drives me to talk to myself constantly, asking myself the various possibilities of life choices I could make. I want to talk about myself all day. Someone as crazy as I might want to read about me. Definitely not a facebook thing.