I feel like the least deserving human on the face of the earth. There is rain outside, I am untouched. There is a guitar leaning against an amp, also untouched by me or the rain. There is a passion, untouched. There are so many things I say to people with earnest and hopeful intention and meaning that disappears into smoke up to the point of incoherence and ‘oh what was I saying?’ and the generally great idea (form a band with Brian, keep a daily poetry output, attempt to publish stories, keep the hands accustomed to the neck of my cold black acoustic guitar, now covered in a thin layer of dust like make up for a theatrical ghost, the death of my dreams falls over me like little unique frozen rain, like snowflakes of intricate random design yet thought out enough to take form before smashing in oblivion upon on the bodies of their friends.)
The overpowering narrative of guilt – it hurts my eyes, feels like I’ve been squinting in the diagonal light of a nearly setting sun, through the car window at a perfect angle. I am intimidated and upset and baffled at the expenditure of time without. Without my ambitions returning to me. Without my guitar hands claiming their prize of instrumental freedom. Of recording programs and singing lessons and French poetry books and a romantic love of life that has meaning again.
I said I hated Phoenix and I regret it. There is beauty there in the shape of a red dress and a cactus littered mountain.
I hate my inability to accomplish anything. And I hate settling for less and I hate myself. Does it feel good to vent in such a manner?
Not really. Maybe it is somehow cathartic to call myself out for my failures. My soulful failures of the everyday commitment to artistic improvement. Man, I put my back into my degradation and I’m 23 and the world is falling apart because no one cares and everyone wants me to chill out and I want to kill the mindless happy air around me painted on with brushstrokes of social cues learned by a media burning lecture hall where everyone sleeps including the professor and nothing gets taught.
We call it collective deep breathing and it functions as being entirely functionless within a society of torpid task-orientation at board meetings for the elect when none realize too well how irrelevant they are when they make grand sweeping gestures of the hands to get their dull point across.
Our castle is too tall for their arrows.
Did I approach something warmer? Closer?
What am I reaching for? Why type like this? I feel like I am revealing nothing aside from an admittance of depression (soul-crushing blues) and a general disarray of thinking. I have a misfiring schematic network that expends energy in short bursts at incorrect times. Faulty wiring caused by underage drinking and genetics, cough syrup and a history of depression with whoops of anxiety broiling up with it’s ugly and illogical demands and my inability to appease this monster, this anxious mess of arteries and hot veiny breath in the pumping ears of my heart, the inability to tell my anxiety that I am okay without making it to the moon, without listening to the innumerable voices of great advice I’ve heard in my life, to remove myself from it’s jaws and rise above with the heart of a task, any one task, like sending an email to a professor or confessing to a counselor that I’m fucked up and barely trust my mind to work correctly somedays, walking around in a daze akin to drunken delirium, and defeat depression with a sword swipe into the neck of it’s teeth punching them all out so it can no longer gnaw at my extremities with the persistent clicking of an old ass heating system (to my left, clicking arrhythmically). Oh god I do not believe I have inhabited this apartment, this luxuriant space, for almost a year, and I do not believe it to be conducive to the creative wanderings necessary for my life to feel like any sort of accomplishment, it feels huge and excessive and like I’m hoarding supposedly good feelings, yet they are unearned and I’m undeserving of the comfort offered and I need to be low and dark and full of woe so I can create with meaning, with purpose and with the anxiety that compels my actions like a fucking carrot dangling out in front. Oh yes, almost there, not quite, so close to some sort of degenerate accomplishment, so close to finishing the readings and sleeping well and feeling strong in character, strong enough to seek society once more.
catatonia: abnormality of movement and behavior arising from a disturbed mental state
(normally relating to schizophrenia)
characterized by: repetitive or purposeless overactivity, or catalepsy, resistance to passive movement, and negativism.
an informal definition of the word is: a state of immobility and stupor. (more applicable)