I was in some sort of a ramshakle facility, powered by nuclear power. Not really shielded and there was some sort of a meltdown. The people with me there werent familiar, but acted as if they knew me. Anyways....as the core went into meltdown and the danger rose we were told to evacuate.....but I didnt, and rushed to rescue some material things I magically seemed to have there with me. I was shook and knocked down by a blast of radiation which I actually felt cooking My brain, and I went to My knees with one last thought:

why did I bring so much shit?

odd man...

Recurring themes in life...

Im by nature a passive, if not quiet indevidual. I will hardly utter w world in social gatherings, or even make eye contact for long as I usually dont want to interact with others. But things I do, or how I present Myself automatically draw attention. My tatoos for example, are hard to miss, even from afar, and they give me alot of attention. And with it compliments most of the time. It makes me feel accepted alittle. For as painful a reminder they are, they are often a focus o discussion, and I find Im not alone, and the center of attention.

Attention I never recieved as a child, and when I did get it generally it was negative. Hence My apprehension towards contact.

But where Im going with this is the attention people need, or seek when they feel so alone, so helpless they need anything, any kind of contact to feel noticed. Some secretly cut themselvs, so no one can see it, but secretly, they might be wishing someone does. They want a sympathetic soul to see thier suffering, even if no words are spoken, it will be in the eyes. The listless surrender of a heart, or mind in torment.

I have not cut Myself in many, many years. Possibly over 15 now. I did so with a razor, or knife.....away from the eyes of parents. Under clothing, so it wouldnt be seen. I was ahsamed as much as I was fascinated by My pain. I dont know why I did it. maybe the stinging would make Me forget what I was thinking.

But that wasnt it...

I wanted to hurt something. I needed to slash something.....I neded to cause something, anything pain to lash out and display the rage I hid inside. My mattrss was always in ribbons. Holes in the wall. trees turned into targets, sticks into spears. My unhealthy hobby of sharp and pointy was birthed at a young age. The glistening steel, razor edges...(usually sharpened by me for hours) they were windows into possibilities. And I respected what they represented.

yeah....I dreamt of using said sharp and pointy on many a kid who crossed me, more times than Id like to recall, but I never did. Just My little body that would bear the mark of the passing of steel to skin. Just holding a knife in My hand was comforting. And I would sleep with them.

Time has indeed passed, and Ive changed alot since then. But the draw of the red lines hasnt escaped me. So when I read of others walking the lines I drew long ago....I feel the sting again as if I was the one making the marks.