The journey that ends at the beginning.

I have an obsession with the morbidly beautiful things in life. The way a wilting flower seems to curl in on itself, creating a sculpture of the very essence of hopelessness. The first trickle of blood from a fresh wound, its vibrant color staining the skin. The fact that my soul seems to crave a dose of pain with each pleasure I seek. I can’t help but love the things that hurt. Winter is here and every beautiful tree projects an image of death. They appear to be dead and decaying on the outside but are actually alive and waiting for spring. I am the opposite. I appear to be alive, living my life on the outside but inside I’m an empty cave, rotting away from the inside out.

I think that I have made a habit out of choosing the paths in life that I know are wrong. Choosing to travel the path that I know will hurt along the way until I am looped back to where I started. Each time I end up at the beginning, I choose this same path. It is disguised as something different each time, with different heartache along the way. But I always choose it. The journey that ends at the beginning.