I used to write my feelings and mean it. Now I am shatter skull. Too concerned with meaning to rip open those boundaries of logic and self-perception, those fallacies to be done away with, scattered stones or skipping stone across and away from shore over the water. Fins breaking surface. God damn it. I’ve been scattered stones skipping across the lake. I hate to keep my thoughts from myself and wonder at the immensity of it all. Why can’t I get to the center where I felt warm with the others who made it there? All winded and happy and crazy-eyed? Slow, stiff legs crooked and curled up in self doubt like hibernating caterpillars. Not a good metaphor sweetheart. I’ve loved you in a sense that made sense with distance and I loved her in a sense that only proximity could nourish. Love is not a word I’ve ever used comfortably. With social suicide notes with great asterisks after every statement*
*I have no love for mirrors. I have no love for echoes. There is a beauty in the real moment. Something I’ve long ago lost. Something I’d grasped at in my writing when I was 18. Six years later, sentimentally homeless, numbjawed from grinding, almost physically stranded on all of the islands of options I’ve held dear to me with a rigorous self scrutiny. I am not a person, only a shell. I want to become what I wanted to become before I became what I am.
“I don’t believe you.” Well, fuck. I needed a clean break and let myself sink into the silt. Overhead conversation. Rude little jabs. Pseudoscientific women and a sad and lonely old man. I am sinking out of their oblivion at least with rum and orange juice. With ruined lawn chairs. With evergreen trees. I can’t imagine my old man becoming physically helpless. I can also see it happening. I cannot imagine my mother becoming a shakra guru but I can also see her library books. I am settled into a routine of “nothing better than..” or a blood line of my own severed longings. God, I’m reaching. Settled into the sedimentary rock, moving subcontinental, or pacific plate shifting upward through the ring of fire. I can’t forget the lava. The raw human emotions buried under my frustrated, disgraceful existence. Simple motions make me ill. I am to be dishonest with myself until I see a new sociological code for me to crack. Oh yes of course I will project my inquities onto others less fortunate. My own, mine. I help a lamp out the window and signaled to them to come back. My old graces long lost in gutters and urinals. Hands groping toward a truthful and reflective object. “I had a good day actually.” Well, I don’t want to be a friend to you. Habanero cider or not. I’m dredging up half truths for others. The lies told to myself daily lost in the whirlpool of ice flakes and swollen dead bodies and all of my agitated worlds collapsing.
Holy fuck. I used to contain so many worlds and now I have imploded. Anxious tearing about paper and letting it litter the beaches like crashed ships ashore with empty treasure chests or bottles with messages written inside of them, but sunbleached out of clarity. I am right behind you. Or.
Don’t forget you are going to die.
That is the urgency that drove the younger me. I have been overgrown with a submissiveness like moss or climbing ivy taking down a barn.
Last thing I needed to do was listen to this music. This sad and hurt little mess of sounds. I see a broken person. I feel the heat of all words I’ve needed to say and the cooling off of the words I should never have to. I want to see a future where it isn’t all so tiring and painful. I need to see myself improving for the better before the shadows of death swallow me up into that great hunger. No pain then. No pain left. No tired.
“bottle of whisky, throw the chairs in the pool”
A dark cloud washed away all my plans.
I’m killing myself slowly. My plants are saddened. I am flat. I lost interest in most things. Music is good. Writing is good. What good am I to do these things? Maybe all I need is some god damned validation. Something missing is collaboration. I am screaming my beautiful confusions into an empty cave without echoes. “baauhhhhm” and jesus christ just look at that freaking monster out there hollering at us, let’s stay still and shut the hell up.
Silence inside when my hands are moving through the motions of a machine with a logo. I am unhappy with every single action I’ve taken this week. My fingernails are cut and bleeding from slamming around cardboard boxes. I am helpful sometimes. I can’t take advise from my mother anymore. I hold my head down in shame and we misunderstand each other in a crazy intense way. We both need validation. Father needs epiphany. Sister needs healthy routine and trustworthy guidance. I need a goal and a direction. A little plan to move toward instead of letting my young twentys disappear into a vacuous waste of missed connections. Of temporary friends and bar stools and slurred words and awkward self-talk and vicious cigarette smoking and parental advice worth avoiding and work out routines and felt absences and deliverance. Jokes on you for taking the question to heart you damn fool. I did not get the joke and I am not laughing at all. I have no desire to laugh or tell a joke or be merry. What nonsense. Obviously he is brooding on something but no one can ask because it is against workplace policy and whiskey-pen and “fuck me! fuck me!” and another few cases spilling onto the sticky concrete. A mess of my consciousness here infected by my anxiety. I need a new habit – spill me over like a shot of whiskey consumed out of a half gourd.