what kind of psychologically warped person must you be to think everything has to do with you? how twisted is it to act and react as if every action, regardless how trivial, is somehow intentionally, deliberately, and with malice and forethought, meant to reach you, meant to torment you, meant to hurt you?
must i be cruel to make it known so that even you cannot miss its truth? very well.
you’re wrong, heath. point blank. straight up. no lie. wrong. there is not a single thing i do in this moment, or in any moment that have, in any shape, manner, fashion, or form been intended to be any of those things.
there is not a thing i have done or even thought of doing in relation to you since may that has had any point of anything more than putting as much physical, mental, spiritual, and emotional space as may humanly be managed between us.
and i regret to this day that i ever thought it possible to do something nice for you. your abject bile in the face of a sincere offering is empirical. you.. the poison of you… it is viral. venal. vicious. and i will not endure you any longer.
the things i write, while they may reference you here or there, are no indicator of interest in you. they are no relation in any way to you.
you are the mirror in which all the ancient, ugly, matted, fucked up memories are reflected. get it? hear it? you’re the latest example of the abuse and horror i knew long ago. and though the example of you, i’m healing myself.
it is not ABOUT you. you just happen to be the best example of all of it that may be used to working through any of it. so thank you for that.
no, heath, i have no interest whatever in knowing you, wanting to know you, wanting to interact with you, wanting anything of, with, near, or about you.
get it? hear it? oh stars. brand it on your twisted brain. please.
why the blazes are you still following me around? why are you still showing up at my blog to read? how are you so blind to your own obsession that you cannot even see it, but still insist i am somehow obsessed with you when every moment since freeing myself of you has been spent repairing the abyssmal wreck i let you create of me and thanking the universe entire for finding my way free of you?
how totally fucked in the head do you have to be to think it impossible that maybe, just maybe, i picked one of your tunes to use at splice because it fit. it had the right bpm. nothing more.
nothing more, you egotistical fuck, nothing more.
what? i’m supposed to pretend you’re completely evil and automatically reject anything i ever liked because you think that’s the way it should be?
you know what? fuck you. fuck you and your inappropriate insistence that you should or could possibly be arbitor of what is appropriate here.
and fuck you for the insufferable arrogance of actually going out of your way to fly your little flags of ego at me. do you really think i fucking care if you do or do not get, read, or wipe your ass with splice notifications?
newsflash, it is NOT all about you.
have you really got nothing better to do than sit around and dream up more and more fucking bizarre scenarios to nurture your already obscene paranoia?
tell me, mr megalomania — do you do this to everyone who ever likes something you did… once you’ve made up your mind they aren’t worth your time anymore?
do they all automatically get labeled unbalanced, stalker, evil intent incarnate? or do you reserve that label for the ones you can’t leash and command, or browbeat out of every shared space?
who the fuck are you to say someone else should avoid a place just because you’re there? if you can’t handle your own mind, maybe you’re the one who needs to go seal yourself up in a fucking cell. maybe the rest of us are just living our lives and if we happen to encounter you after the fact, other than a brief shudder of revulsion, we just shrug and keep walking.
maybe even being able to enjoy something you did is more a testament to someone’s ability to separate than some desire to cling. but no, you wouldn’t get that either, would you?
good stars above, how empty and bereft must your life be that the best you can do is chew your nails and fret about what i’m doing. the last time i actually thought about you, it was to compare the horror of you to the bliss i experience now and thank life, the multiverse, the six realms and all karma that you are PAST.
go away. take a fast, long run at a good wall and knock me from your head. you don’t know me. you NEVER knew me. you never TRIED to know me. and the only thing this continuing insanity from you demonstrates is that the utter rejection of you was the wisest choice i could ever have possibly made.
the only thing of you that exists here, the only thing… is that of you that you haven’t found and likely never will… not this life and, at the rate you’re going, not for a damn good many to come.
and yes, that part of you is honored and set teacher here. as obviously incapable as you are of understanding such a thing — that part of you is loved and will always be loved. that part of you that is incapable of the things you do and continue to do is honored, treasured, and remembered.
that part of you, it yet receives odes and poems and whispers. because that part of you, despite the fact that you insist on smothering, killing, and avoiding it in every moment… remains in the multiverse and it is that which i tenderly cherish.
i do it by my choice, and in spite of the spite of you. and fuck you if you cannot understand or accept it. i do not need your understanding or your acceptance.
if you can’t get how and why this is possible, how it works, it isn’t my fault, my problem, or my concern.
if you can’t bring yourself to understand it, simply put — it is not, nor has it ever been, my problem. and i am no longer interested in trying to help you when you can’t even be bothered to help yourself. get it? i do not have to accept that of you. it is unacceptable. period.
your inappropriate, wrongful, self-cherishing actions, the things you continue to do on behalf of something that never existed outside the horror house of your head — you’re welcome to lavish your attention and care on it. go on, grow your little garden of demons and death. it is nothing to anyone but you.
it is nothing here but reminder of what is known of you as you choose to be.
it is nothing but a complete validation of the choice to stop thinking you what you’re not, and to stop waiting for you to find your way to it when you demonstrate in every breath that of all the things possible, that is simply not what you ever want to be.
that, for all your talk, you’re nothing BUT talk.
hear me — what you do, choose, and are — what you have chosen to be in every moment of attempting to relate to you — sickens me. utterly disgusts and repulses me. the only way i avoid being completely and hopelessly impeded by having known you is to segregate what you are from what you could be…. and set that pristine, sublime portion of you that you just aren’t interested in finding somewhere that even YOU cannot touch it …here… in me.
for all you seem obsessed with continuing to try.
go away. stay away. go play with your demons, your bones, your fears. wallow in them until they’re all you can ever hope to know. be swallowed by them. utterly. as you want. as you desire. as you insist.
that of you is no longer welcome here and there will never be anything here for that of you except razors. you are no longer permitted.
you. shall. not. pass.