Found this from my diary in 1994 :
"When Kurt Cobain killed himself I was so angry. Really angry. Silently screaming, shouting, stunned, shocked and angry. I wasn't really that into him. I played Nevermind quite a lot, but never gave him a second thought.
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I was on my own when I saw it on TV. All my housemates had gone to Poland. I didn't want to go. I was too fat. I wanted to be alone, to get my head straight in the peace and quiet of an empty house. I thought then I'd be myself again, okay. And, that when they got back life would be good.
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I don't know why I was so angry. It wasn't for doing it, it was what I wanted to do every day. It might have been that although I couldn't hold out any hope for myself, just -
flat, lifeless, bemused - What? What the fuck do you want from me? Leave me alone. I can't feel good. I don't want to. I just want to go back to bed. But I'm scared and I'm nothing inside and I've too much inside. It's all boiling over and I've got to get it out. Kill something, someone, myself, or die or go mad. I want you to save me. I can't do it alone. There's no have, no solution. Nobody knows how I feel, there's something wrong with me. How can you all get through life so easily, through the day? How do you all do it?
- I'd thought some image of a man could give it to me. But he killed himself and made me think, there is no hope, absolutely no hope. If there was help to be had, he would have had got it. If money, fame and talent and good looks and a wife and baby aren't enough, aren't the solution, what else is there that could be?
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People say they love me, and show it, but I can't feel it. I can't get hold of it, touch it. I know one day I will kill myself and I know it has to be that way, nothing I do or try and keep failing to do is going to change me. Hope just killed itself.
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It feels hard just to be alive. I'm so powerless, all I can do is nothing. Or cry, or eat. I don't want to know this but at least it's real. I wish I could have my old Saturday job back, I want to be a shop assistant. I don't need this brain. I don't want it. No brain, no idea. I'd be happy again, I wouldn't know any better. Ambition is a curse. Intelligence is a curse. A damnation.
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If I could be anything I'd be stupid and beautiful. Do stupid beautiful people ever kill themselves? What else would I need? Nothing I'd be happy and taken care of and loved and able to love myself. But I'm not stupid and not beautiful. I'm fairly bright and I've made myself fat and ugly to punish myself, or the world. "Look what you made me do". "I hurt and care".
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I don't know and I just wish I could stop thinking about it and just get on with things. But it's so hard. I'm weighed down and dumb, scared and angry. I hate you and I hate myself.
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I know I'm not the only one. I can hear it in some music, with and without the words. In the words, with and without the music. I can feel the frustration, absurdity, rage, fear and confusion, the desire and apathy, fantasy and reality. Is it in the music? Or in me? Or everything?
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I think I've found the answers in it, or in old poetry or books, but it doesn't last long. They seem to be answers, but they're just reflections, just echoes, a communal howl. We all feel this together, but I never believe you feel this quite as much as I do.
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I want you to give me the solution, but I don't want to lose myself. So I'll hold onto this pain, it's me, and if the alternative is a Stepford Wife, well I'd rather die."
Passion without direction. Apathy with a purpose. Things are in the last place you look because once you find them you stop looking. Jesus was a surfer dude. A storyteller zen man. He had the answers but it didn't help him or us. Kill your idols. etc.
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