in the dining room, i sit at the table. it's dark and cool and the sounds of the refrigerator and the occasional train passing by are all that surround. did i leave the life i used to know by mistake? by becoming too comfortable? or was it something far worse, that i truly was happy here once before.
i seem to have forgotten how i got here. maybe it was all the reckless smoking or the shameless sex. maybe it was that i used to drink to forget, just to wish the world away. odd enough, i've forgotten without a drink.
and so you'll call, or more accurately, send a message via social media because that is how the world works now. and i'll tell you, "it's fine. i got out of that place." then the pause. the big gap that illustrates everything while being nothing, we no longer have a common ground. the exchanges are short now and they're as cold as the coffee i'm not drinking anymore.
you were my lover in the darkest days. my soul and my passion on the brightest. i drew you with lines that seemed infinite and painted you with strokes so delicate no one believed they were ever mine. you were the one thing i could never believe was mine.
so i threw a kayak into the back of our old farm truck and drove to the end of the road where there's just open shore line and this dying grass touches the waves still wildly alive yet cold as though they are no longer. i paddle out until i can see the sun rise and it's still the most beautiful thing to me. the way it kisses the horizon and ignites the entire hemisphere.
it used to be you and me on this frozen sea. but you spent your whole life begging for a connection. imagining and demanding a kind of love that would surpass even life. and you found a way to cling to everything; something like a god, cigarettes, a song, and at one point me. i knew it was unrealistic and the only way something could last that long was if it were internal. so i tried to teach you how to run from it all, "let's get out of here," i'd encourage.
we never went anywhere. we never lasted forever.
when you allow yourself to be so vulnerable, so truly exposed, it's like letting go. it's like i just opened my mind and let it seep out; what a mess i've made. what a horrible mess.
out here, on the water, i'm vulnerable again. the waves crashing into me the wind howling. my own body working against me as my joints begin to ache, lips chapped and nose runs. it's cold and the water grows rougher as the winds pick up. i guess it was because i became an addict early on. i turned to drugs and escalated quickly. nothing was ever good enough.
then you came along and i was addicted to you. i craved you and i long for you in your absence. i would carve the wound you became just to feel it deeper; to keep you closer. out here, i can watch the world spin like a great machine. when it comes to you, i am blind.
Thursday, November 5, 2015
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Hands, forbidden
my nose somehow savors the unmasked musk of unbathed body. malicious musician, my hands are forbidden. our touch, a taboo and those memories become untrue. vehement, uncouth, burning your youth with shots and cigarettes and shameless sex.
i realized today that you're leaving me with nothing left. so i've tried to rest, but eyelids test me with images emblazoned, pasted, trapped of you -- where each nap is a nightmare called reality. and so it's a night where i might take a walk at three a.m. past a meth dealer's house i know, and i'm not sure i want you here or not but you can have the necklace I made with tears I've caught. In the morning someone will say that I'm built of poetry and you know as well as i, just how prosaic my thinking can be. i know you'd agree. your dragging your heart; i'm dragging my feet behind you and it looks to me a bit like art. in a few days you tell me secrets and i respond with my lies, saying "mmhmm.," "oh god!," and "okay." once you've passed your burden on to me, you turn and walk away. and i do the same to you.
i tell you that we'll have a few drinks you by yourself and I'm on my own until we're too drunk to drive and our keys have been taken away. In the morning i might ask, "where did you wake up?" in some apartment with your clothes wet from alcohol spilt on the floor and rain soaked clothes because you went outside to smoke. You know i'd be doing the same thing all the while hoping that i help myself to a faith like yours and get better, but we can't get dry. not here. not like this. so keep chapping your lips kissing all those girls that fall so fast and fall so hard because you know everything i gave is like everything i write. lacking life.
it isn't impossible to get home without a car key.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Growing
This week has been a struggle. It seems like I clear one hurdle just to be presented with another one. After facing some hardships and struggling with some major health concerns, I received word that I'm being talked poorly about in an online forum by women that claim to be my "peaceful" and "natural" mothering peers... Such hypocrites. Although I'd love to call them out on these accusations and proclaim, "I feel for you" (I really do) it would serve no purpose. Best to put one foot before the next and keep walking. When it rains, it pours right?
Well, let’s just say that 2012 has been the mother of all monsoons.And this got me thinking…
Life really gets in the way of motherhood. It gets in the way of how I would like to mother my sweet boy. It gets in the way of simply enjoying being his mother. Just when I see the opportunity to carve out a few days to just be with and completely present for him, something seems to bring that to a grinding halt.
I absolutely adore being his mama with all my heart. I just deeply wish I could enjoy him more, without the stress of betrayal. I wish I had the backbone to deal with the hurt and keep a wall up instead of showing the entire world (virtually) my emotional crumble. I wish that life would allow me the space to catch my breath so that my sweet boy and I could enjoy some peace and calamity together. I feel so guilty sometimes that he has to share me with the challenges life has thrown our way; financially, emotionally, and most recently medically.And here I express my frustration - so bitterly disappointed in myself (in my weakness) and as this sweet boy's mama. It is my responsibility to guide him through these challenges, showing him how to cope with and grow from them. There is not another way for him to experience this side of life. I never wish these burdens to be placed in his hands directly.
Although life is not full of clarity and virtue everyday all of the time, it is also not a giant monsoon. It has its periods of discourse and its periods of harmony. We happen to be struggling through a period of real discourse right now. The sadness I feel is a result of the high ideals I have about how motherhood should look for my son, especially since he's at an impressionable age while all of this is going on around him.My son may not get it entirely at his young age, but he is not oblivious to the craziness going on around him either. He's a part of it. My job is to guide him through it, help him understand it, and when needed, help him heal from it. Because that is what motherhood is all about. I am supporting this beautiful little soul as he grows and everything we are dealing with is part of that.
Looks like I just might be growing too...
Well, let’s just say that 2012 has been the mother of all monsoons.And this got me thinking…
Life really gets in the way of motherhood. It gets in the way of how I would like to mother my sweet boy. It gets in the way of simply enjoying being his mother. Just when I see the opportunity to carve out a few days to just be with and completely present for him, something seems to bring that to a grinding halt.
I absolutely adore being his mama with all my heart. I just deeply wish I could enjoy him more, without the stress of betrayal. I wish I had the backbone to deal with the hurt and keep a wall up instead of showing the entire world (virtually) my emotional crumble. I wish that life would allow me the space to catch my breath so that my sweet boy and I could enjoy some peace and calamity together. I feel so guilty sometimes that he has to share me with the challenges life has thrown our way; financially, emotionally, and most recently medically.And here I express my frustration - so bitterly disappointed in myself (in my weakness) and as this sweet boy's mama. It is my responsibility to guide him through these challenges, showing him how to cope with and grow from them. There is not another way for him to experience this side of life. I never wish these burdens to be placed in his hands directly.
Although life is not full of clarity and virtue everyday all of the time, it is also not a giant monsoon. It has its periods of discourse and its periods of harmony. We happen to be struggling through a period of real discourse right now. The sadness I feel is a result of the high ideals I have about how motherhood should look for my son, especially since he's at an impressionable age while all of this is going on around him.My son may not get it entirely at his young age, but he is not oblivious to the craziness going on around him either. He's a part of it. My job is to guide him through it, help him understand it, and when needed, help him heal from it. Because that is what motherhood is all about. I am supporting this beautiful little soul as he grows and everything we are dealing with is part of that.
Looks like I just might be growing too...
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Intensity
I spend much of my lesiure time these days emerged in heavy reading through which, I have gained a new grasp on the ideas of Thich Nhat Hanh, T'ai Hsu, and similiar scholars. How incredible is it that we, as free thinkers, have soverignty over ourselves? Sometimes I lose sight of myself in the midst of the changes in my life, to whichever extent they may occur. Usually people become busier and busier, day after day, especially in our fast-paced world.
Revisiting old, familiar places after a long time, I am continously astonished by these very changes. They cannot be helped. Yet, if an individual allows herself to become completely involved in the excitement of her busy life, she will be lost. The solace I have been searching for will allow me to keep my mind calm and constant so as to keep me away from the noisy world, even though I am gridlocked in the midst of it. The strangest part of all of this is that the reading I've done is primarily regarding zen. Yet, zen is not some kind of excitement, but concentration on our everyday routine.
I have spent the past twenty-three years, my entire lifetime, hoping to live and to love with an intensity which I've only ever honestly been able to posess in art. It is an intensity which describes the relative purity and visual strength of color. I suppose what I ought to seek instead is a world in which the colors are subdued, reminiscent of a work by Whistler and more in sync with the sublime found in art and literature.
In the romantic era, that sublime became of it's own importance. Revealing what was felt took precedence over reporting what was seen. The value placed on the intuitive and emotional romanticisms was anticipated by that very essence. I felt for a long time that I was at a standstill. I would swallow that lump in the back of my throat and share the words, 'I love you' with someone whom I did, in fact, care for tremendously. Only, realizing then that I'd arrived at the point in each of our lives where we need to surrender ourselves to defeat. The reality that resulted from that situation was that the man I'd spoken to was unable to hear me anymore. Our hands were sad; our bones grew tired; we were choking on dirt. Because we are human, we enjoy all aspects of life as long as we protect ourselves and keep our guard up. I do this by looking at my life as an unfolding big mind, I do not care for any excessive joy, so I have to carry imperturable composure.
I have spent a wealth of time being angry about the way things have turned out with my relationships (at every level), hoping that the sun would suck the earth dry and my pain with it. I wished that it were physically possible to stab the skyline until it blead and I knew that it would make no diffrence because blood comes from privilege too. The final conclusion is that to find true peace, we need to be the peace which we hope to see. I hurried myself in intensity because I wanted to make that impression on those around me and upon the world. In all actuality, I feel sublime in wilderness landscapes, storms, melodramas and in simply being with someone who acts like we are the happiest people on earth. The other side is to let go of the past and recognize that althouh, I often wonder and hope for only the best for those I have lost along the way, I wonder where I will be when they find it.
Revisiting old, familiar places after a long time, I am continously astonished by these very changes. They cannot be helped. Yet, if an individual allows herself to become completely involved in the excitement of her busy life, she will be lost. The solace I have been searching for will allow me to keep my mind calm and constant so as to keep me away from the noisy world, even though I am gridlocked in the midst of it. The strangest part of all of this is that the reading I've done is primarily regarding zen. Yet, zen is not some kind of excitement, but concentration on our everyday routine.
I have spent the past twenty-three years, my entire lifetime, hoping to live and to love with an intensity which I've only ever honestly been able to posess in art. It is an intensity which describes the relative purity and visual strength of color. I suppose what I ought to seek instead is a world in which the colors are subdued, reminiscent of a work by Whistler and more in sync with the sublime found in art and literature.
In the romantic era, that sublime became of it's own importance. Revealing what was felt took precedence over reporting what was seen. The value placed on the intuitive and emotional romanticisms was anticipated by that very essence. I felt for a long time that I was at a standstill. I would swallow that lump in the back of my throat and share the words, 'I love you' with someone whom I did, in fact, care for tremendously. Only, realizing then that I'd arrived at the point in each of our lives where we need to surrender ourselves to defeat. The reality that resulted from that situation was that the man I'd spoken to was unable to hear me anymore. Our hands were sad; our bones grew tired; we were choking on dirt. Because we are human, we enjoy all aspects of life as long as we protect ourselves and keep our guard up. I do this by looking at my life as an unfolding big mind, I do not care for any excessive joy, so I have to carry imperturable composure.
I have spent a wealth of time being angry about the way things have turned out with my relationships (at every level), hoping that the sun would suck the earth dry and my pain with it. I wished that it were physically possible to stab the skyline until it blead and I knew that it would make no diffrence because blood comes from privilege too. The final conclusion is that to find true peace, we need to be the peace which we hope to see. I hurried myself in intensity because I wanted to make that impression on those around me and upon the world. In all actuality, I feel sublime in wilderness landscapes, storms, melodramas and in simply being with someone who acts like we are the happiest people on earth. The other side is to let go of the past and recognize that althouh, I often wonder and hope for only the best for those I have lost along the way, I wonder where I will be when they find it.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Bruce Lee and Charles Bukowski
Charles Bukowski wrote, "Often the best parts of life were when you weren't doing anything at all, just mulling it over, chewing on it. I mean, say that you figure that everything is senseless, then it can't be quite senseless because you are aware that it is senseless and your awareness of sensselessness almost gives it sense." To carry on with the redundancy, this makes sense.
The past few days I have spent doing nothing along set guidelines. Even my professional life these days is not scheduled, where I come and go as I please. Yet I find myself feeling quite content. Only recently I was heartbroken, lost and clinicallly depressed; while I still suffer from each of these, I can think more clearly and am learning to cope with each burden seprately in its own right. The people which I surround myself with lately have helped tremendously. I used to see the world like Bukowski which was, to say it bluntly, not the most pleasant of viewpoints.
And how is it that I ever believed I'd seen the world in one clear way? Well, it's simply that I am foolish and naive. I, in all honesty, don't even know what it means to be 'worldly'. As it is here, a figure of speech, it probably means to be a rogue of sorts with no care for god. In this sense, pretaining to the people or laity' secular, not ecclesiastical, religious, et cetera. It doesn't even have anything to do with actually 'knowing' of the world. People have often said I speak and write as though I've experienced a lot, like I'm some worthy person of offering my opinion, and worse, them seeking it. These are people whom believe that I have the ability of stating my feelings clearly. While I am flattered by their assumptsion, I wonder why it is that this claim is made. So lately I've been taking a closer look at the dynamic. Based on that observation which my friends and colleagues make, I believe that I have somehow exposed myself and therefore, am projecting my shame and embarassment onto these people (and that includes you).
I look at writing like any other, often more illustrative, art form. Take for example, documentary photography. I guess that wehre photography is concerned, I've always thought that a photographer's goal was to leave those viewing her subject asking questions. The other goal would be for the photograppher to try and keep herself out of the photo and to let it play out like a narrative. Granted, it is the ultimate conclusiion that the artist behind the camera is, in fact, a part of her photo in tone alone; yet, at first the goal being very much evident.
Rhetoric is just one of those arts. It is the art of writing or speaking effectively. In a lot of ways when I write online, I can share this goal by leaving my identity behind. I can virtually disappear, had I choosen an alias. Unfortunately, it seems that those individuals reading this see past the cold feeling of plack text againgst the glow of a white screen and the emotionless fromat in which I write. I don't expect words to touch any person and I'd prefer that they don't. some people reading this haven't got a clue about me. They might not even know my name which is ideal to me (I realize this is impossible for those reading via facebook). I feel sometimes like it'd be much easier to live where no one knows my name or my story, instead they just had this, a raw jumble of words and a great hope for making sense of things much larger than the human mind.
Sometimes I watch old clips of Bruce Lee (something I first learned to do from my friend, Holly). I love his knoweldge to flow and let flow. "Be like water," he says. While I would love to know and understand the true weight of water, I am walking lightly upon a virtual tightrope. Conflicting emotions in the face of certain change are perhaps understandable from an on-looker's perspective and perhaps might be the reason those around me seem to proclaim I think and write logically. It's the sorting out of those emotions which is more difficult than undergoing the actual changes in my relationships; be it intimate, friendship or immediate to my family.
So while it all might seem clear as you sit on the opposite of this screen, and my hope is that this will; I sit and type what seems redundant and crazy. There is no sure way of knowing that a sound mind will be able to create that same stability with words on paper. Language and existance are questioning. That might be the bottom line and I struggle daily to accept this.
Choices are often the precursor of fears and always the initiator of free will. I'm working toward a lifestyle in which I act to exercise that very free will; directing my outward actions toward choices that will serve my destinyy (as the saying goes, "check yourself before you wreck yourself". Unfortunately, wondering the entire time if the drugs and past relationships have already 'wrecked' me). Fear must be controlled or transmuted if ti's truly personal growth that a person is after, but fear can be useful to showing exactly where she may need to go to achieve those very choices. I dance around subjects sometimes because I have A.D.D. and also because it's much simplier than facing them head on. So one might imagine my confusion when friends and strangers alike approach me, believing that any of this is logically in place.
The point is that I'm finally understanding that fear is not the only option; choice is. I think of how ridiculous it is that people actually believe I make sense because it's a jumble of a sorting process - everything I post here. It's my self-help, you could say, because I'm too frugel for buying pyschology books and too embarassed to check them out of the librray. I'm insane. Nonetheless, I believe that any person can be at peace, emotionally, the very instant she chooses to be. with awareness and a healthy dose of detachment, a person can exercise her right to choose which emotion serves her moment to moment. Now, THAT is a new feeling!
The past few days I have spent doing nothing along set guidelines. Even my professional life these days is not scheduled, where I come and go as I please. Yet I find myself feeling quite content. Only recently I was heartbroken, lost and clinicallly depressed; while I still suffer from each of these, I can think more clearly and am learning to cope with each burden seprately in its own right. The people which I surround myself with lately have helped tremendously. I used to see the world like Bukowski which was, to say it bluntly, not the most pleasant of viewpoints.
And how is it that I ever believed I'd seen the world in one clear way? Well, it's simply that I am foolish and naive. I, in all honesty, don't even know what it means to be 'worldly'. As it is here, a figure of speech, it probably means to be a rogue of sorts with no care for god. In this sense, pretaining to the people or laity' secular, not ecclesiastical, religious, et cetera. It doesn't even have anything to do with actually 'knowing' of the world. People have often said I speak and write as though I've experienced a lot, like I'm some worthy person of offering my opinion, and worse, them seeking it. These are people whom believe that I have the ability of stating my feelings clearly. While I am flattered by their assumptsion, I wonder why it is that this claim is made. So lately I've been taking a closer look at the dynamic. Based on that observation which my friends and colleagues make, I believe that I have somehow exposed myself and therefore, am projecting my shame and embarassment onto these people (and that includes you).
I look at writing like any other, often more illustrative, art form. Take for example, documentary photography. I guess that wehre photography is concerned, I've always thought that a photographer's goal was to leave those viewing her subject asking questions. The other goal would be for the photograppher to try and keep herself out of the photo and to let it play out like a narrative. Granted, it is the ultimate conclusiion that the artist behind the camera is, in fact, a part of her photo in tone alone; yet, at first the goal being very much evident.
Rhetoric is just one of those arts. It is the art of writing or speaking effectively. In a lot of ways when I write online, I can share this goal by leaving my identity behind. I can virtually disappear, had I choosen an alias. Unfortunately, it seems that those individuals reading this see past the cold feeling of plack text againgst the glow of a white screen and the emotionless fromat in which I write. I don't expect words to touch any person and I'd prefer that they don't. some people reading this haven't got a clue about me. They might not even know my name which is ideal to me (I realize this is impossible for those reading via facebook). I feel sometimes like it'd be much easier to live where no one knows my name or my story, instead they just had this, a raw jumble of words and a great hope for making sense of things much larger than the human mind.
Sometimes I watch old clips of Bruce Lee (something I first learned to do from my friend, Holly). I love his knoweldge to flow and let flow. "Be like water," he says. While I would love to know and understand the true weight of water, I am walking lightly upon a virtual tightrope. Conflicting emotions in the face of certain change are perhaps understandable from an on-looker's perspective and perhaps might be the reason those around me seem to proclaim I think and write logically. It's the sorting out of those emotions which is more difficult than undergoing the actual changes in my relationships; be it intimate, friendship or immediate to my family.
So while it all might seem clear as you sit on the opposite of this screen, and my hope is that this will; I sit and type what seems redundant and crazy. There is no sure way of knowing that a sound mind will be able to create that same stability with words on paper. Language and existance are questioning. That might be the bottom line and I struggle daily to accept this.
Choices are often the precursor of fears and always the initiator of free will. I'm working toward a lifestyle in which I act to exercise that very free will; directing my outward actions toward choices that will serve my destinyy (as the saying goes, "check yourself before you wreck yourself". Unfortunately, wondering the entire time if the drugs and past relationships have already 'wrecked' me). Fear must be controlled or transmuted if ti's truly personal growth that a person is after, but fear can be useful to showing exactly where she may need to go to achieve those very choices. I dance around subjects sometimes because I have A.D.D. and also because it's much simplier than facing them head on. So one might imagine my confusion when friends and strangers alike approach me, believing that any of this is logically in place.
The point is that I'm finally understanding that fear is not the only option; choice is. I think of how ridiculous it is that people actually believe I make sense because it's a jumble of a sorting process - everything I post here. It's my self-help, you could say, because I'm too frugel for buying pyschology books and too embarassed to check them out of the librray. I'm insane. Nonetheless, I believe that any person can be at peace, emotionally, the very instant she chooses to be. with awareness and a healthy dose of detachment, a person can exercise her right to choose which emotion serves her moment to moment. Now, THAT is a new feeling!
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
F@#k You!
Bitterness is all the rage. It is an element of human emotion that destroys someone inside and out. I think anger fortifies a human being and cannont be realized until a woman stares herself in the eye and feels comfortable with that reflection. My rage is something that I work diligently to contain. I keep it locked up and hidden from those who surround me. This is not to say that I am some woman who ought to seek anger management, but to say that when I do infact become angry, it effects me severily. My body shakes with discontent. I do not eat properly nor sleep regularly and focus soley on a vexation which is never human.
So a man comes to me and says that I have upset him. This man is angry with me and confronts me soon after realizing his unhappiness. He says I have caused him great stress while I cannot seem to fathom how it is that I am capable of changing someone else's feelings. We have never been lovers: never been enemies.
I keep as much of my time locked up as possible. Perhaps this is why I do much of my writing and communicating with others via the internet. I don't need to go away to see them or talk, not that I am totally against those types of social interactions. Likewise, I don't need to open my door to them, allowing them to look at my books, the foods I eat, the bed in which I rest, et cetera. There is a tremendous comfort in keeping people at bay. I figure I can save time by refusal to share mine with anyone else. This way, I'm at least in theory prolonging my own time.
At any rate, I stand confused by this man's accusation. I have vexed him? I have irritated him? And how so? My very lack of presence? I feel as though people get angry at their connivance, as it is something to do. I feel sometimes that people don't know what real hurt is. I wonder how it is that a man can overlook the fact that the pain or aggravation in itself is a presence. People's arguments are often aimless and without grounds. In this case, I never said I would be somewhere and later was not. I never changed my mind in a last minute rush, I simply did nothing. Imagine that!
So this would-be-friend wants to ridicule me for an aspect of social longevity which I have never possessed. I wish often that I'd be more prone to get togethers and cute little encounters; unfortunately, I am probably in that classification of loners and hermits. I'm more independent on a serious note. I can have my brief encounters with people but they are no more intimate than brushing against a stranger in a crowded avenue. I simply like to stay in and theorize, imagining that one day, I may have thought something through enough to make a difference.
So go ahead, be bitter. Get upset. Lash out. I really am made of steel. It doesn't matter in this moment, hasn't been thought-provoking in moments passed and will not sustain into tomorrow. Keep your memory of me and all the stress I've created. I am a monster and even monsters are tangible.
So a man comes to me and says that I have upset him. This man is angry with me and confronts me soon after realizing his unhappiness. He says I have caused him great stress while I cannot seem to fathom how it is that I am capable of changing someone else's feelings. We have never been lovers: never been enemies.
I keep as much of my time locked up as possible. Perhaps this is why I do much of my writing and communicating with others via the internet. I don't need to go away to see them or talk, not that I am totally against those types of social interactions. Likewise, I don't need to open my door to them, allowing them to look at my books, the foods I eat, the bed in which I rest, et cetera. There is a tremendous comfort in keeping people at bay. I figure I can save time by refusal to share mine with anyone else. This way, I'm at least in theory prolonging my own time.
At any rate, I stand confused by this man's accusation. I have vexed him? I have irritated him? And how so? My very lack of presence? I feel as though people get angry at their connivance, as it is something to do. I feel sometimes that people don't know what real hurt is. I wonder how it is that a man can overlook the fact that the pain or aggravation in itself is a presence. People's arguments are often aimless and without grounds. In this case, I never said I would be somewhere and later was not. I never changed my mind in a last minute rush, I simply did nothing. Imagine that!
So this would-be-friend wants to ridicule me for an aspect of social longevity which I have never possessed. I wish often that I'd be more prone to get togethers and cute little encounters; unfortunately, I am probably in that classification of loners and hermits. I'm more independent on a serious note. I can have my brief encounters with people but they are no more intimate than brushing against a stranger in a crowded avenue. I simply like to stay in and theorize, imagining that one day, I may have thought something through enough to make a difference.
So go ahead, be bitter. Get upset. Lash out. I really am made of steel. It doesn't matter in this moment, hasn't been thought-provoking in moments passed and will not sustain into tomorrow. Keep your memory of me and all the stress I've created. I am a monster and even monsters are tangible.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
You
I sit here with my old dog, getting closer to eternity all the time, and it gets very depressing. What can I do? I had high hopes in myself and in the idea of an "us" over the past couple of years. It seemed we all did. But what does an evil old recluse do now that he's finally made it to his destination? Now that he's finally there in a crowd of strangers and he's hurt the one person who swore she'd never hurt him? Just sit and be evil? This is something quite difficult for any human, I imagine, unless he is an adept at evil and a 'made-man'.
The lack of overhead light lends a special dreary look to my bedroom. I'm surrounded by bitter reminders every day; the muddy snow outside, the gray-blue landscapes, that moment before the telephone rings and the sigh I'm forced to emit when there's no one on the receiving end. These streaks of dull russet ink make me sick but it's really no match to the disgust I feel knowing that I'm going to try again.
All I want to do is make an offer; start fighting and you will know who you are fighting. There is always a fight here. This is a war universe. I'm not afraid of being alone. This is the inherent way of life. I have realized the emptiness of anger and conflict that exists in our lives. I know the illusory nature of victory and vengeance in our world. There is no holy grail. There is nothing gratifying enough about being human which urges me to surround myself with another. Likewise, there is nothing intriguing nor passionate left in the person I once craved.
The lack of overhead light lends a special dreary look to my bedroom. I'm surrounded by bitter reminders every day; the muddy snow outside, the gray-blue landscapes, that moment before the telephone rings and the sigh I'm forced to emit when there's no one on the receiving end. These streaks of dull russet ink make me sick but it's really no match to the disgust I feel knowing that I'm going to try again.
All I want to do is make an offer; start fighting and you will know who you are fighting. There is always a fight here. This is a war universe. I'm not afraid of being alone. This is the inherent way of life. I have realized the emptiness of anger and conflict that exists in our lives. I know the illusory nature of victory and vengeance in our world. There is no holy grail. There is nothing gratifying enough about being human which urges me to surround myself with another. Likewise, there is nothing intriguing nor passionate left in the person I once craved.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Some Religion
I am twenty-three years old, curled in the fetal position on my bed. I am a grown woman so lonely, I have twisted my body into a knot so small that I feel it may be tight enough to make me disappear and I hope that it does. I turn the air conditioning on and have striped myself bare; I'm shivering just to feel alive and wondering if I ought to feel this way at all.
How a person gets here, I wonder while the tears fall from my face. I'm writing at my computer so I don't have to blur pen ink across pages that I'll give back to the eath in days that pass. Nothing can stop the dark, dingy purple shades from creeping into my eyes from lack of sleep.
In Taoism, an affinity between life and death is part of the answer to either one specifically. In this particular moment, I don't even know if life is something to desire yet alone ponder the depth of. I started studying the Tao from afar as an activist dimension, believing that life could be prolonged by drawing on it's power. This by all practical definitions alludes to present-day fitness regimes having been prefigured in Taoist philosophy and practice: meaning that some things in modern society which exist make sense. These are aspects of life such as diet, exercise and using natural substances to strengthen health. Chinese alchemy focuses greatly on life prolongation and it was mirrored later in western development.
So while in bed, shivering in the cool air, thinking, crying and not wanting to move which included the contraction and expansion of my lungs within my chest. I am torn between two vicious choices. Do I continue to live and wonder in a cruel body which grants me a sound mind capable of thinknig and feeling-hard-to-swallow emotions, or do I die and perhaps reach the end where nothing is certain? Thinking of life, people are at least implicitly thinking of death. Human beings, being free-thinkers, are attracted to the idea of a life that somehow flourishes and renews, continuing despite a universe that seems so finite.
I used to listen to the story of Messrs Ssu, Yo, Lai and Li over and over again as a child. It was my favorite and perhaps is the reason I am so interested in the belief that those characters follow (the Tao) to this day. Anyway, the story goes that these four guys are good friends. They get together on a reagular basis in search for the truth from everything very complex to things quite simple. Ultimately, the friends realize that language will not help them. Well, one day, Lai gets very sick and it is obvious that he will die soon. His family is very upset by the news so they surround Lai to share stories of his life and sob in memory. That is, until Li shows up and tells them all to leave. Shh! Don't interrupt the process of change! He says. It is then that Messrs Ssu and Yo return to speculate with Li about what is to become of Lai. How extraordinary the great creator of life is, they imagine. Where will he go? What will be made from him next? They wonder until he dies and the three remaining friends return to their quest for truth.
The truth is that for now, I feel content. I can swallow my bad days in a few cool moments where I sob like a baby, but I surround myself with a solid, daily solace of generally good company. I realize that I am no Taoist nor do I seek to become one, but I find great comfort in knowing that in a place so far from here, there are people contemplating, with great discomfort, the same philosophical and religious questions I struggle with on a daily basis. It is time for some rejuvenating.
How a person gets here, I wonder while the tears fall from my face. I'm writing at my computer so I don't have to blur pen ink across pages that I'll give back to the eath in days that pass. Nothing can stop the dark, dingy purple shades from creeping into my eyes from lack of sleep.
In Taoism, an affinity between life and death is part of the answer to either one specifically. In this particular moment, I don't even know if life is something to desire yet alone ponder the depth of. I started studying the Tao from afar as an activist dimension, believing that life could be prolonged by drawing on it's power. This by all practical definitions alludes to present-day fitness regimes having been prefigured in Taoist philosophy and practice: meaning that some things in modern society which exist make sense. These are aspects of life such as diet, exercise and using natural substances to strengthen health. Chinese alchemy focuses greatly on life prolongation and it was mirrored later in western development.
So while in bed, shivering in the cool air, thinking, crying and not wanting to move which included the contraction and expansion of my lungs within my chest. I am torn between two vicious choices. Do I continue to live and wonder in a cruel body which grants me a sound mind capable of thinknig and feeling-hard-to-swallow emotions, or do I die and perhaps reach the end where nothing is certain? Thinking of life, people are at least implicitly thinking of death. Human beings, being free-thinkers, are attracted to the idea of a life that somehow flourishes and renews, continuing despite a universe that seems so finite.
I used to listen to the story of Messrs Ssu, Yo, Lai and Li over and over again as a child. It was my favorite and perhaps is the reason I am so interested in the belief that those characters follow (the Tao) to this day. Anyway, the story goes that these four guys are good friends. They get together on a reagular basis in search for the truth from everything very complex to things quite simple. Ultimately, the friends realize that language will not help them. Well, one day, Lai gets very sick and it is obvious that he will die soon. His family is very upset by the news so they surround Lai to share stories of his life and sob in memory. That is, until Li shows up and tells them all to leave. Shh! Don't interrupt the process of change! He says. It is then that Messrs Ssu and Yo return to speculate with Li about what is to become of Lai. How extraordinary the great creator of life is, they imagine. Where will he go? What will be made from him next? They wonder until he dies and the three remaining friends return to their quest for truth.
The truth is that for now, I feel content. I can swallow my bad days in a few cool moments where I sob like a baby, but I surround myself with a solid, daily solace of generally good company. I realize that I am no Taoist nor do I seek to become one, but I find great comfort in knowing that in a place so far from here, there are people contemplating, with great discomfort, the same philosophical and religious questions I struggle with on a daily basis. It is time for some rejuvenating.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Mind Play
"The creation of something new is not accomplished by intellect, but the playing instinct acting from inner necessity. The creative mind plays with the object it loves" - Carl Jung
Does a woman find her life in drugs for the same reason? I guess now my time as a user is all distant memory. In the moment, I found drugs a colorful arrangement of temptations for which I could play and be played with. I was not initially uncontrolled or completely dependent on the substances which I surrounded myself with. I found them an inlet to another state of mind or sense of emotion. It was much like the way I view artwork, granting it a power of influence great enough to arise various feelings. Art fails when it creates no alteration of it's viewer's emotion.
For a moment when I was eleven years old the world felt right. I had taken my first hit of marijuana and actually felt like i'd let it drag enough to feel that high. There is nothing in this world quite like the first puff of sweet, sweet green and the way her scent lingures. I think my interest in marijuana was out of curiousity at first. I was big into poetry then, too lazy to read novels, and I can remember it vividdlythat I'd been reading a book of Whitman when a friend passed the joint toward me. I inhaled, exhaled and thought for a few momemnts that I'd reached that point in life where it truly is as good as it gets. The next line I read was, "to be surrounded by beautiful, luminous, laughing flesh is enough," and it was on that day.
Later the weed I smoked was never good enough. I had smoked so much so frequently in a craze that my tolerance had built up and in many ways peaked. I could smoke in a circle of friends watching as they'd get high. I could smile, laugh and feel decently but I wasn't getting high anymore. I didn't feel anxious or paranoid and my laughter was not that of a mind on drugs. I thought about leaving and never coming back because I needed to find something that would make sticking around worth the while. It got to be hard to fly.
I suppose my first addiction was to pills. Opiates could kill me and not in the same context that they'd kill most users by overdosing. I am fatally allergic to them. I think I took ecstasy because I longed for that company of mind and would settle for the company of body which rolling brought. I needed to be with a lover those days and I never actaully knew what a lover was. Ecstasy was an entirely more complicated sense of awareness than just that of strangers and the contact which I desired from them. The lights were better; the music became enhanced. It created a surrounding that urged my body to move; to dance. I would breathe faster than I could think and often felt overheated. I remember a few times when there were sober, clean kids around just wanting to move and shake. They would offer water to users including me but too much water could be dangerous. In fact, everything in life seems potentially quite dangerous especially love and that is primarily what I was after. People's emotional lives are not linear like their waking lives. I wanted to find a source for all of the emotions of abandonment and loneliness I was going through. I figured if I had sex it was the most secure and passionate thing I could do. Instead, sex provided a certain numbness. It was that feeling of nothingness that made me feel tremendously uncomfortable and so I sought new medication.
Methadone is a prescribed drugused to suppress heroin addiction, often in amounts so high that hardcore junkies can harvest addictive qualities for it. I had a friend that was messed up on the needle and she never took the meth to get better so I took it because it was there and it was inexpensive, comparatively. I suppose it took about a week to become addicted and then it wasn't a matter of getting high, but being happy. Meth was one drug, one aspect of my life, that never wanted anything from me. I liked that for once in my life, I was the user.
LSD was a way to get away; it was a place I could visit and leave my body all together. I did some crazy things in this state. I remember taking showers fully clothed on a number of occasions and thinking I was somewhere very diffrent. Then I would lie on my bed or upon the floor drenched and wonder why I was so cold. It never dawned on me that I had just been in the shower. In many ways there is a part of me that went missing when I became hooked on LSD. I got caught up in discovering just how many areas of the brain are used for vision and I needed more than life to expand my line of sight. I'd hallucinate before I would ever consider closing my eyes. In some respects, I still feel this way only it is much more readily available to paint or draw than it is to take an acid trip. Now I can think back and it makes fair sense. I feel like I'm back on the right track but the reality of it is that I was not living then in this reality so I will never truly have those years back. It's just a memory of them which is difficult to take in sometimes.
There is a part of me that thinks this was crazy and irrational behaviour. I find myself thinking back on my life in the past only to discover that I've left every aspect behind without any hesitation. Every past relationship and many friendships, I have just taken off and figured the other individuals involved could use a little neglect seeing as I had endured a great deal up to that point. I guess, despite the loss of memory, rages and pits of depression which I'd gone through back then, I turned out okay. I might have a skewed way of laying it all out and I find myself restless with people more than I'd like to admit, but I have survived it and many people that care so much for junk like I did, don't survive. Twenty escasty tablets could have killed me and there were nights when they ought to have. I certainly don't know the reason that I breathe tonight, but for once, I can safely say that I'm okay with it. I'm a pretty damn thankful lunatic.
Does a woman find her life in drugs for the same reason? I guess now my time as a user is all distant memory. In the moment, I found drugs a colorful arrangement of temptations for which I could play and be played with. I was not initially uncontrolled or completely dependent on the substances which I surrounded myself with. I found them an inlet to another state of mind or sense of emotion. It was much like the way I view artwork, granting it a power of influence great enough to arise various feelings. Art fails when it creates no alteration of it's viewer's emotion.
For a moment when I was eleven years old the world felt right. I had taken my first hit of marijuana and actually felt like i'd let it drag enough to feel that high. There is nothing in this world quite like the first puff of sweet, sweet green and the way her scent lingures. I think my interest in marijuana was out of curiousity at first. I was big into poetry then, too lazy to read novels, and I can remember it vividdlythat I'd been reading a book of Whitman when a friend passed the joint toward me. I inhaled, exhaled and thought for a few momemnts that I'd reached that point in life where it truly is as good as it gets. The next line I read was, "to be surrounded by beautiful, luminous, laughing flesh is enough," and it was on that day.
Later the weed I smoked was never good enough. I had smoked so much so frequently in a craze that my tolerance had built up and in many ways peaked. I could smoke in a circle of friends watching as they'd get high. I could smile, laugh and feel decently but I wasn't getting high anymore. I didn't feel anxious or paranoid and my laughter was not that of a mind on drugs. I thought about leaving and never coming back because I needed to find something that would make sticking around worth the while. It got to be hard to fly.
I suppose my first addiction was to pills. Opiates could kill me and not in the same context that they'd kill most users by overdosing. I am fatally allergic to them. I think I took ecstasy because I longed for that company of mind and would settle for the company of body which rolling brought. I needed to be with a lover those days and I never actaully knew what a lover was. Ecstasy was an entirely more complicated sense of awareness than just that of strangers and the contact which I desired from them. The lights were better; the music became enhanced. It created a surrounding that urged my body to move; to dance. I would breathe faster than I could think and often felt overheated. I remember a few times when there were sober, clean kids around just wanting to move and shake. They would offer water to users including me but too much water could be dangerous. In fact, everything in life seems potentially quite dangerous especially love and that is primarily what I was after. People's emotional lives are not linear like their waking lives. I wanted to find a source for all of the emotions of abandonment and loneliness I was going through. I figured if I had sex it was the most secure and passionate thing I could do. Instead, sex provided a certain numbness. It was that feeling of nothingness that made me feel tremendously uncomfortable and so I sought new medication.
Methadone is a prescribed drugused to suppress heroin addiction, often in amounts so high that hardcore junkies can harvest addictive qualities for it. I had a friend that was messed up on the needle and she never took the meth to get better so I took it because it was there and it was inexpensive, comparatively. I suppose it took about a week to become addicted and then it wasn't a matter of getting high, but being happy. Meth was one drug, one aspect of my life, that never wanted anything from me. I liked that for once in my life, I was the user.
LSD was a way to get away; it was a place I could visit and leave my body all together. I did some crazy things in this state. I remember taking showers fully clothed on a number of occasions and thinking I was somewhere very diffrent. Then I would lie on my bed or upon the floor drenched and wonder why I was so cold. It never dawned on me that I had just been in the shower. In many ways there is a part of me that went missing when I became hooked on LSD. I got caught up in discovering just how many areas of the brain are used for vision and I needed more than life to expand my line of sight. I'd hallucinate before I would ever consider closing my eyes. In some respects, I still feel this way only it is much more readily available to paint or draw than it is to take an acid trip. Now I can think back and it makes fair sense. I feel like I'm back on the right track but the reality of it is that I was not living then in this reality so I will never truly have those years back. It's just a memory of them which is difficult to take in sometimes.
There is a part of me that thinks this was crazy and irrational behaviour. I find myself thinking back on my life in the past only to discover that I've left every aspect behind without any hesitation. Every past relationship and many friendships, I have just taken off and figured the other individuals involved could use a little neglect seeing as I had endured a great deal up to that point. I guess, despite the loss of memory, rages and pits of depression which I'd gone through back then, I turned out okay. I might have a skewed way of laying it all out and I find myself restless with people more than I'd like to admit, but I have survived it and many people that care so much for junk like I did, don't survive. Twenty escasty tablets could have killed me and there were nights when they ought to have. I certainly don't know the reason that I breathe tonight, but for once, I can safely say that I'm okay with it. I'm a pretty damn thankful lunatic.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Medicine
It's a pity, to me, that before people learn to think philosophically, the world becomes habit. It makes me wonder if people might somehow lose the abilitiy to wonder about the world - the great mystery.
I have always desired an inquiring mind, this paired with an enigmatic world. I don't think I have ever gotten used to the world. Is it habitual? Yes; more or less. I wake up and fall asleep. I attempt to have meals throughout my consciousness. I meet people, maintain employment and have interests. In this sense, I am living. However, I refues to join the apathetic and indifferent. In this sense, I am being.
I have been thinking a great deal about medicine and health lately. Perhaps it is that my dear friend is visually dying in front of me. Perhaps it is some innate reason, already inside of me; my loneliness, maybe. What baffles me most is that there is no satisfactory explanation for it - no assurance that a person who thinks clearly will be able to live contently under the influences of some perscribed stability.
Medicine is perhaps the art respected by all men in all times. When socratic irony fails, it is drugs that work. I don't think of my flaws as mental or physical imbalances, but rather a belief that nature has gone off-course. Health, likewise, requires more than a sound body and a sound mind. It takes moderation of all things, harmony and a healthy lifestyle.
I also consider 'right' and 'wrong' and how these play a role in medicine. I have a pretty good understanding of them by society's definition. If a man lies, cheats, and steals is it right? No, not by society's standards. Is the man happy? I don't know, yet I suppose that he is and therefore pass no judgement. This is much like my inability to speak up in relationships about the parts that may cause my restlessness and insecurities. It may not be healthy, but I think it's habit. People accept the love they think that they deserve.
I suppose I used thought to participate in life. I wonder too much, maybe, about one small detail in great depth until I feel like I comfortably understand it. This letting the quite that results from thought, put things where they're supposed to be. This saves me a great deal of talking aloud with other people. I figure that the world is much too old for us to talk about with our new words anyway. It sets me up for disappointment, so I just assume pretend that my lips are chapped to the point where talking hurts - remaining mute.
This is, perhaps, the same reasoning that differentiates those drugs and medication from god and spirituality. With religion and theory, people observe everything in unison and harmony; with drugs and medication, they become a part of it.
One of my girlfriends told me the other day that I'm "maniacal". I grinned, shrugged and suppose that places me in the lightly sinister category with all other subterraneans with their maniacal overtones, and I don't feel so bad.
I have always desired an inquiring mind, this paired with an enigmatic world. I don't think I have ever gotten used to the world. Is it habitual? Yes; more or less. I wake up and fall asleep. I attempt to have meals throughout my consciousness. I meet people, maintain employment and have interests. In this sense, I am living. However, I refues to join the apathetic and indifferent. In this sense, I am being.
I have been thinking a great deal about medicine and health lately. Perhaps it is that my dear friend is visually dying in front of me. Perhaps it is some innate reason, already inside of me; my loneliness, maybe. What baffles me most is that there is no satisfactory explanation for it - no assurance that a person who thinks clearly will be able to live contently under the influences of some perscribed stability.
Medicine is perhaps the art respected by all men in all times. When socratic irony fails, it is drugs that work. I don't think of my flaws as mental or physical imbalances, but rather a belief that nature has gone off-course. Health, likewise, requires more than a sound body and a sound mind. It takes moderation of all things, harmony and a healthy lifestyle.
I also consider 'right' and 'wrong' and how these play a role in medicine. I have a pretty good understanding of them by society's definition. If a man lies, cheats, and steals is it right? No, not by society's standards. Is the man happy? I don't know, yet I suppose that he is and therefore pass no judgement. This is much like my inability to speak up in relationships about the parts that may cause my restlessness and insecurities. It may not be healthy, but I think it's habit. People accept the love they think that they deserve.
I suppose I used thought to participate in life. I wonder too much, maybe, about one small detail in great depth until I feel like I comfortably understand it. This letting the quite that results from thought, put things where they're supposed to be. This saves me a great deal of talking aloud with other people. I figure that the world is much too old for us to talk about with our new words anyway. It sets me up for disappointment, so I just assume pretend that my lips are chapped to the point where talking hurts - remaining mute.
This is, perhaps, the same reasoning that differentiates those drugs and medication from god and spirituality. With religion and theory, people observe everything in unison and harmony; with drugs and medication, they become a part of it.
One of my girlfriends told me the other day that I'm "maniacal". I grinned, shrugged and suppose that places me in the lightly sinister category with all other subterraneans with their maniacal overtones, and I don't feel so bad.
Monday, November 23, 2009
A plague with a dangerous tongue
I think I would rather hear someone has died than the diagnosis that they are bound to. It's like slapping a big warning on someone's body that warns they're a disappearing act. I'd rather she just dies and be gone instead of watching all the health and happiness flea from her body and soul. It's not glorifying and even the strongest person cannot defeat this deadly plague that is the human condition.
My good friend invided a group of girls over for our usual wine themed "Ladies Night". It was the regular type of get-together that we have everytime; sharing laughs and stories. Only last night was interrupted by a heavy undertone. All night we could see there was discomfort in her body language and physical pain at certain times. Almost the ache of a heavy soul. She shared with us last night that she was diagnosed with esophageal cancer about three months ago and by her check up with her doctor earlier yesterday, it is evident that the illness has begun to spread. Like wildfire, this is a grotesque killer, only now it is personal and has pried its way into the very body of one of my greatest friends.
This friend, is a gorgeous and generous person in both body, intllect and passion. There is not one person more qualifying for me to carry on in the impression of. I have many friends that I consider to be good people and by Mother Earth, god or whatever superstition it is that we name our religion, I am blessed to have encountered. She is beyond a blessing in my life. It is a simple task for a friend to offer a ride or come by occasionally at her expense to console a friend druing a crisis; however, it is a completely more emotional connection to take in someone (as she has done with me and vice versa) and say virtually, that "Hey, I am not going to go away. I am going to be here when it's invonvenient for you - invonvenient for me too" I think in most ways she is my rock - that person that I can lean on no matter where I am or what the problem. I used to figure that she would be a girlfriend at my wedding day, proposing a toast. I figured she would be around forever, to help me shop for children's clothes and pick out a good school if ever that day came as she'd already gone through it with her children. Unfortunately, cancer is day after day replacing my wonderful friend and likewise, taking over my own body and mind, replacing it with sadness.
The weight of her physical pain is above me. The weight of that choked up feeling you get when you need to tell someone face to face something but can't - that she is going to have to deliver this statement not only to myself and our mutual friends, but to her children, her family, her lover. I cannot even imagine telling someone that you are going to die and there is nothing anyone can do. I have seen this disease take over the lives of friends and family memebers before, people who's lives were throuwn into mine by biology, work, or educational decisions. She is someone I searched for. I made it a point of getting to know her and love her as a friend and mentor and now she is going to die.
Instead of focusing on all of this and addressing the physical and finacial struggles that lie ahead of her, she just mobilized everything she has - her spirituality, emotions, intellect and the remnants of her physical strength. She said to me in an effort to keep my tears back once everyone else had left, "Mel, the world is sickened; it isn't just me. There is pollution of pollution threatened with AIDS, racfisms, homelessness, all kinds of pain and illnesss. Cancer is just one point. One art in my body and it's just an art that is bigger than my body can handle."
I cried the whole way home and took miles of backroads just for something to do - someplace to go. I couldn't figure out who to talk to because I can't make this any better. I suppose that's why this is here, lying in the depths of cyberspace, with no direction. I, too, lacking direction.
My good friend invided a group of girls over for our usual wine themed "Ladies Night". It was the regular type of get-together that we have everytime; sharing laughs and stories. Only last night was interrupted by a heavy undertone. All night we could see there was discomfort in her body language and physical pain at certain times. Almost the ache of a heavy soul. She shared with us last night that she was diagnosed with esophageal cancer about three months ago and by her check up with her doctor earlier yesterday, it is evident that the illness has begun to spread. Like wildfire, this is a grotesque killer, only now it is personal and has pried its way into the very body of one of my greatest friends.
This friend, is a gorgeous and generous person in both body, intllect and passion. There is not one person more qualifying for me to carry on in the impression of. I have many friends that I consider to be good people and by Mother Earth, god or whatever superstition it is that we name our religion, I am blessed to have encountered. She is beyond a blessing in my life. It is a simple task for a friend to offer a ride or come by occasionally at her expense to console a friend druing a crisis; however, it is a completely more emotional connection to take in someone (as she has done with me and vice versa) and say virtually, that "Hey, I am not going to go away. I am going to be here when it's invonvenient for you - invonvenient for me too" I think in most ways she is my rock - that person that I can lean on no matter where I am or what the problem. I used to figure that she would be a girlfriend at my wedding day, proposing a toast. I figured she would be around forever, to help me shop for children's clothes and pick out a good school if ever that day came as she'd already gone through it with her children. Unfortunately, cancer is day after day replacing my wonderful friend and likewise, taking over my own body and mind, replacing it with sadness.
The weight of her physical pain is above me. The weight of that choked up feeling you get when you need to tell someone face to face something but can't - that she is going to have to deliver this statement not only to myself and our mutual friends, but to her children, her family, her lover. I cannot even imagine telling someone that you are going to die and there is nothing anyone can do. I have seen this disease take over the lives of friends and family memebers before, people who's lives were throuwn into mine by biology, work, or educational decisions. She is someone I searched for. I made it a point of getting to know her and love her as a friend and mentor and now she is going to die.
Instead of focusing on all of this and addressing the physical and finacial struggles that lie ahead of her, she just mobilized everything she has - her spirituality, emotions, intellect and the remnants of her physical strength. She said to me in an effort to keep my tears back once everyone else had left, "Mel, the world is sickened; it isn't just me. There is pollution of pollution threatened with AIDS, racfisms, homelessness, all kinds of pain and illnesss. Cancer is just one point. One art in my body and it's just an art that is bigger than my body can handle."
I cried the whole way home and took miles of backroads just for something to do - someplace to go. I couldn't figure out who to talk to because I can't make this any better. I suppose that's why this is here, lying in the depths of cyberspace, with no direction. I, too, lacking direction.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
The way things really are
It used to be that I'd find a great guy and share an extraordinary friendship which over time became more emotional and eventually developed into an intimate relationship. My dating history is not by any means an extensive list of haves nor have-nots; however, a small list of painful memories and opportunities which introduced me to some marvelous individuals along the way.
When I met Lucas the circumstance were entirely different than they had been in the past. He and I both in a location, physically, we did not frequent and, emotionally, we could not by ourselves comprehend. It was an unusual evening and in retrospect, I am still very fortunate that our paths crossed.
Sometimes, I feel as though it shouldn't be this hard to keep our relationship alive. It shouldn't be this hard to smile, but I'm beginning to see that the mountains not only tower in physical height but in defeat, once again. My head is like a kite; my thoughts tied on a string dragging behind me in magnificent visibility. I guess on my end, I'm just too afraid to give up. I'd love to figure out what's wrong with me (although I wish modern medicine wouldn't direct toward perscription bottle solutions). I'd love also to believe that he'd never let me go. I want to believe that he'd fight till his dying day because I know I would. I've been searching the eyes of everyone I meet to find signs of him and an offering of reason as to why everything is suddenly feeling so uneasy. I'd fight whatever it is that's causing this trouble in mind if I could only realize where it all began. It's my life?
Picking up the telephone is perhaps the most selfish act I've had lately and now it's one of habit. I'm doing it in part because I am, quite honestly, curious as to what's happening in the receiving location. I'm also making calls because I need to feel the person on the other end. I've been in a cold state of mind lately - part of me ready to say my good-byes and a bigger part believing that I have no one to say good-bye to. I feel like this beautiful place I've been has been in a fog of surrealism leading me to believe there's been emotion and love where there hasn't. I'm in a position that's far beyond tears and the hope of a disappearing act in a crowd of faces I wouldn't recognize.
When I met Lucas the circumstance were entirely different than they had been in the past. He and I both in a location, physically, we did not frequent and, emotionally, we could not by ourselves comprehend. It was an unusual evening and in retrospect, I am still very fortunate that our paths crossed.
Sometimes, I feel as though it shouldn't be this hard to keep our relationship alive. It shouldn't be this hard to smile, but I'm beginning to see that the mountains not only tower in physical height but in defeat, once again. My head is like a kite; my thoughts tied on a string dragging behind me in magnificent visibility. I guess on my end, I'm just too afraid to give up. I'd love to figure out what's wrong with me (although I wish modern medicine wouldn't direct toward perscription bottle solutions). I'd love also to believe that he'd never let me go. I want to believe that he'd fight till his dying day because I know I would. I've been searching the eyes of everyone I meet to find signs of him and an offering of reason as to why everything is suddenly feeling so uneasy. I'd fight whatever it is that's causing this trouble in mind if I could only realize where it all began. It's my life?
Picking up the telephone is perhaps the most selfish act I've had lately and now it's one of habit. I'm doing it in part because I am, quite honestly, curious as to what's happening in the receiving location. I'm also making calls because I need to feel the person on the other end. I've been in a cold state of mind lately - part of me ready to say my good-byes and a bigger part believing that I have no one to say good-bye to. I feel like this beautiful place I've been has been in a fog of surrealism leading me to believe there's been emotion and love where there hasn't. I'm in a position that's far beyond tears and the hope of a disappearing act in a crowd of faces I wouldn't recognize.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Blissfest and other hippie bullshit
So here I am in Northern Michigan, once again, and it's the weekend of the Bliss music and arts festival. I guess to a lot of my friends and colleagues this is a big deal. It's like Rothbury had a little baby in Good Hart, Michigan. I've gone before and I'm not sure that I'll go again. Besides, it's sort of dubbed a 'hippie' festival now and I think somehow the definition of being a hippie has changed drastically since its origin.
I guess the term hippie means basically a person who is opposed to many of the conventional standards and customs of society, especailly one who advocates extreme liberalism in sociopolitical attitudes and lifestyles. I get this. I feel like I fit pretty well into that all natural liberal attitude.
I think it can be defined in many ways - having long hair in the 1960's meant something very diffrent that in does now. Then, it was a statement against the war. As people were being drafted and sentenced to a likely death in Vietnam, it was more a trend, it isn't really a philosophy like John and Yoko made it out to be back in the counter-culture days. I guess in my mind the modern age of 'hippies' isn't much like its 60's ancestors. It's a soul and life philosophy above everything else. Choosing to support local business or music, over corporate ones. Buying organic, harvesting your own food, political activism, meditation - everything externally simple and internally rich. Instead of man v. nature, it's about the power of co-existing; hemp clothing, plant based diets, alternative medicine and so on. Seeking to live in harmony with the Earth and those around you without confrontation and conformation.
I hope that if people are going to cling to this sterotype of being a modern hippie; they do, in fact, understand the mentality that all those civil activists that started this movement lived and breathed for us to know it to this day. The biggest part, I'd say is becoming the change that one wishes to see in the world. In order to start a revolution, you've got to first be the revolutionary.
So, to those of you setting up your hammocks and hanging your tapestries this weekend, you won't see me. If Bliss really is about following your own personal 'bliss' it wouldn't be slapping a price tag on Mother Earth, music or art. At any rate, to those of you going; have fun, you dirty bare-footed hipsters.
I guess the term hippie means basically a person who is opposed to many of the conventional standards and customs of society, especailly one who advocates extreme liberalism in sociopolitical attitudes and lifestyles. I get this. I feel like I fit pretty well into that all natural liberal attitude.
I think it can be defined in many ways - having long hair in the 1960's meant something very diffrent that in does now. Then, it was a statement against the war. As people were being drafted and sentenced to a likely death in Vietnam, it was more a trend, it isn't really a philosophy like John and Yoko made it out to be back in the counter-culture days. I guess in my mind the modern age of 'hippies' isn't much like its 60's ancestors. It's a soul and life philosophy above everything else. Choosing to support local business or music, over corporate ones. Buying organic, harvesting your own food, political activism, meditation - everything externally simple and internally rich. Instead of man v. nature, it's about the power of co-existing; hemp clothing, plant based diets, alternative medicine and so on. Seeking to live in harmony with the Earth and those around you without confrontation and conformation.
I hope that if people are going to cling to this sterotype of being a modern hippie; they do, in fact, understand the mentality that all those civil activists that started this movement lived and breathed for us to know it to this day. The biggest part, I'd say is becoming the change that one wishes to see in the world. In order to start a revolution, you've got to first be the revolutionary.
So, to those of you setting up your hammocks and hanging your tapestries this weekend, you won't see me. If Bliss really is about following your own personal 'bliss' it wouldn't be slapping a price tag on Mother Earth, music or art. At any rate, to those of you going; have fun, you dirty bare-footed hipsters.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Living
When all there is is just cigarette smoke and hope filling the room, what can you do? What can you do but to feel like you want to laugh and cry and scream and you feel like it should last forever. What can you do but to feel a little upset because you know it has to end sometime - it just has to.
Every good thing comes with that price. With that lump in the back of your throat (that lump that you get when you know the feeling you have is the absolute best kind of bad).
Walk to the park. Lay in the middle of the road. Listen to the sound of perfect - to those laughs, that you just know are real. You don't have to wonder, think twice, second guess those laughs. Climb a tree. Those moment when you go outside and huddle together or walk while embracing because even though it's warmer inside, it feels better this way. Nothing can compare to sugarhoney kisses and one last cigarette.
To picture lifeless trees, living skies, tombstones of babies that died in eighteen thirty-three, , concrete floors and beautiful people whom you have nothing but love for - capturing things that you don't think should be memories yet. No, not just yet.
I like to capture them like yesterdays clouds and make believe that nothing can stop me from making them stay forever. And I dance and sing to the soundtrack of my future nostalgia hoping to put it in my pocket and hang onto it like it's something tangible.
I think sometimes that maybe this feeling is the feeling of happiness, something that I've never held before, never really experienced. I figure it's like being in a tornado - not the eye, where everything is peaceful, no. Instead it's like swirling around feeling things I never knew I was capable of feeling. I am a million shades of crazy, one hundred layers of calm, a mile of chaotic beauty.
And there isn't anything a thing that can be done to stop this. To end it. I know that it doesn't matter if I never feel this way again. It doesn't matter because I've had it once. This isn't an ending at all. Remember? We're feeling; we're living.
Every good thing comes with that price. With that lump in the back of your throat (that lump that you get when you know the feeling you have is the absolute best kind of bad).
Walk to the park. Lay in the middle of the road. Listen to the sound of perfect - to those laughs, that you just know are real. You don't have to wonder, think twice, second guess those laughs. Climb a tree. Those moment when you go outside and huddle together or walk while embracing because even though it's warmer inside, it feels better this way. Nothing can compare to sugarhoney kisses and one last cigarette.
To picture lifeless trees, living skies, tombstones of babies that died in eighteen thirty-three, , concrete floors and beautiful people whom you have nothing but love for - capturing things that you don't think should be memories yet. No, not just yet.
I like to capture them like yesterdays clouds and make believe that nothing can stop me from making them stay forever. And I dance and sing to the soundtrack of my future nostalgia hoping to put it in my pocket and hang onto it like it's something tangible.
I think sometimes that maybe this feeling is the feeling of happiness, something that I've never held before, never really experienced. I figure it's like being in a tornado - not the eye, where everything is peaceful, no. Instead it's like swirling around feeling things I never knew I was capable of feeling. I am a million shades of crazy, one hundred layers of calm, a mile of chaotic beauty.
And there isn't anything a thing that can be done to stop this. To end it. I know that it doesn't matter if I never feel this way again. It doesn't matter because I've had it once. This isn't an ending at all. Remember? We're feeling; we're living.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Something to fill some space
There was a pilot who crashed, wrecked his plane (and lived). He said he'd never fly again. I guess that words don't mean a thing if you can throw some together with the hope that it turns out okay, and then let anyone read it to see what he or she will say. Sometimes I feel like that 'anyone' is my only friend. Anyone is everything, you know? Me, us, them, him, her, no one at all. I just write words to words and hope that someone might discover the diffrence betewen 'listening' and 'hearing'.
I kind of laugh at the way I lie awake and let darkness seep in through my open windows, gathering under my eyes and bruising them a dingy purple.
I don't really have an inability to sleep, it's not that. I guess I'm just tired of devoting myself to something only to have it turn into a vapor and dissipate into the atmosphere - miles away - leaving me with empty clentched fists and damp eyes. And I do this to myself all the time until I'm raw with ignorance and nauseous with rejection.
I think I upset a lot of people and I know that I upset myself. And maybe I don't want that.
As for today, I'll just stick to my grey skies. It's like that feeling I got the first time I was soaked with rain and didn't even bother getting dry and warm. Once you've had lightning and thunder shake the walls around you, you might as well expect more because it's coming.
Sometimes rainstorms are so beautiful it hurts but it's not as bad as the times when I hurt so badly that it's beautiful. That's how it's been, licking envelopes and only tasting glue, not something enjoyable. Not something memorable. But I love those memories anyway, of sending letteres the old-fashioned way; and sometimes, when it's wet and grey or I can't handle the weather, I pull out an envelope and seal it shut without a letter inside because I think I've run out of words and I've been relying on touch ever sense.
I kind of laugh at the way I lie awake and let darkness seep in through my open windows, gathering under my eyes and bruising them a dingy purple.
I don't really have an inability to sleep, it's not that. I guess I'm just tired of devoting myself to something only to have it turn into a vapor and dissipate into the atmosphere - miles away - leaving me with empty clentched fists and damp eyes. And I do this to myself all the time until I'm raw with ignorance and nauseous with rejection.
I think I upset a lot of people and I know that I upset myself. And maybe I don't want that.
As for today, I'll just stick to my grey skies. It's like that feeling I got the first time I was soaked with rain and didn't even bother getting dry and warm. Once you've had lightning and thunder shake the walls around you, you might as well expect more because it's coming.
Sometimes rainstorms are so beautiful it hurts but it's not as bad as the times when I hurt so badly that it's beautiful. That's how it's been, licking envelopes and only tasting glue, not something enjoyable. Not something memorable. But I love those memories anyway, of sending letteres the old-fashioned way; and sometimes, when it's wet and grey or I can't handle the weather, I pull out an envelope and seal it shut without a letter inside because I think I've run out of words and I've been relying on touch ever sense.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Purifying
I woke up today in a weird place, in time. A grey place where it wasn't dark anymore and it wasn't quite light - just grey and kind of cold.
Sometimes, I get really angry with myself for thinking so much about everything around me in such a negative way. I'm finally trying to get a better perspective about my life and a better handle on the things that shape it. I'm really trying to understand the whole concept of feeling human without skepticism anymore.
Yet, I'm living in a system that doesn't force people to risk anything. I'm breathing a life that is not in control, but won't lose control. I feel like I will never stop fighting, yet I don't fight. I think there's a beautiful thing about the Chinese Taoism teaching to embrace and endure, and I find it rather entertaining how the Western world optimistically believes that if you embrace, you will endure.
And what exactly was that moment of greyness this morning? I suppose just a tired sunset that I called a sunrise because I haven't a clue. Maybe I'm just a fatigued as the sun, anyway. I feel like it. I'm emaciated, detached, and I feel lately lacking in life. I have, over the last two months or so, discovered my desire for solitude, perhaps of habit, like a woman suffering leukemia, only mine is an illness of spirit.
This past weekend has been rainy, and I feel like everything is exactly the same on a rainy day, where I can rest outside for hours while it pours and pours on me. There's no comfort in water and no comfort in stars. There's no comfort in knowing that the sky will clear up to something beautiful - because there's no saying when.
I'm learning an awful lot about myself lately without the presence of other people. For example, I spend entirely too much time outside in my garden and I never actually do much in terms of horticulture. It's funny that way. I just think the whole time, and feel the rain which is steady and just enough to let me know I still feel something. I think about art and how foolish it really is to think that I can stop and capture something beautiful as it is while it naturally occurs. My eyes are cold and dull but there is truth in them. I think about everyone that I am not and how they're all alike yet different. How they're all addicted and insane and how I'm just the same, and different.
Perhaps it's time to do some purifying?
Sometimes, I get really angry with myself for thinking so much about everything around me in such a negative way. I'm finally trying to get a better perspective about my life and a better handle on the things that shape it. I'm really trying to understand the whole concept of feeling human without skepticism anymore.
Yet, I'm living in a system that doesn't force people to risk anything. I'm breathing a life that is not in control, but won't lose control. I feel like I will never stop fighting, yet I don't fight. I think there's a beautiful thing about the Chinese Taoism teaching to embrace and endure, and I find it rather entertaining how the Western world optimistically believes that if you embrace, you will endure.
And what exactly was that moment of greyness this morning? I suppose just a tired sunset that I called a sunrise because I haven't a clue. Maybe I'm just a fatigued as the sun, anyway. I feel like it. I'm emaciated, detached, and I feel lately lacking in life. I have, over the last two months or so, discovered my desire for solitude, perhaps of habit, like a woman suffering leukemia, only mine is an illness of spirit.
This past weekend has been rainy, and I feel like everything is exactly the same on a rainy day, where I can rest outside for hours while it pours and pours on me. There's no comfort in water and no comfort in stars. There's no comfort in knowing that the sky will clear up to something beautiful - because there's no saying when.
I'm learning an awful lot about myself lately without the presence of other people. For example, I spend entirely too much time outside in my garden and I never actually do much in terms of horticulture. It's funny that way. I just think the whole time, and feel the rain which is steady and just enough to let me know I still feel something. I think about art and how foolish it really is to think that I can stop and capture something beautiful as it is while it naturally occurs. My eyes are cold and dull but there is truth in them. I think about everyone that I am not and how they're all alike yet different. How they're all addicted and insane and how I'm just the same, and different.
Perhaps it's time to do some purifying?
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Us
She once said she never liked to be alone, and it's kind of funny the way she rarely is. She has this sort of magnetism that attracts people to her. She hates it.
I had a marvelous discussion the other day and I feel like I might be one person that understands loneliness better than a lot of other people do. I guess a girl can't quite understand that level of solitude until she's watching someone die. I'm battling the sky.
I feel sometimes like a tramp - like I use my own body for satisfaction and communitcation instead of harboring the suggested behaviours of health and well-being. But sexuality is more about the mind and body finding harmony that it is about the body and instant gratification.
There are days when I sit outside under the warmth of the sun holding my hands to my chest - holding my hands against the life I had. That part of me is now so far gone that I can only see it when it appears while I dream. I'm loyal and I'll remain this way until the day that I die, but after that, it's uncertain. Nobody knows what lies behind the day we die.
Sex is only a part of the quest to be beautiful. I miss that part of physically being with Lucas while we're on opposite sides of the country, but I know that in life and in love people are constantly promising but never really after a promise. Instead, searching for a guarantee that whatever it is that two people share won't ever slip away.
I feel sometimes like we're slipping.
The way I'd like it to go isn't always the way it ends up happening. I think sometimes that what we do is complicating our lives vicariously through blocking our emotions because they're ugly on the inside. We're bitter and irritate and we should probably sing songs while we sail through the sky instead. Besides I believe that I'll know what he means when he flies and also when he comes down. Maybe it should all just be simplified, instead of worrying about circumstance and anything else weighing us down.
I had a marvelous discussion the other day and I feel like I might be one person that understands loneliness better than a lot of other people do. I guess a girl can't quite understand that level of solitude until she's watching someone die. I'm battling the sky.
I feel sometimes like a tramp - like I use my own body for satisfaction and communitcation instead of harboring the suggested behaviours of health and well-being. But sexuality is more about the mind and body finding harmony that it is about the body and instant gratification.
There are days when I sit outside under the warmth of the sun holding my hands to my chest - holding my hands against the life I had. That part of me is now so far gone that I can only see it when it appears while I dream. I'm loyal and I'll remain this way until the day that I die, but after that, it's uncertain. Nobody knows what lies behind the day we die.
Sex is only a part of the quest to be beautiful. I miss that part of physically being with Lucas while we're on opposite sides of the country, but I know that in life and in love people are constantly promising but never really after a promise. Instead, searching for a guarantee that whatever it is that two people share won't ever slip away.
I feel sometimes like we're slipping.
The way I'd like it to go isn't always the way it ends up happening. I think sometimes that what we do is complicating our lives vicariously through blocking our emotions because they're ugly on the inside. We're bitter and irritate and we should probably sing songs while we sail through the sky instead. Besides I believe that I'll know what he means when he flies and also when he comes down. Maybe it should all just be simplified, instead of worrying about circumstance and anything else weighing us down.
I don't want to be together. I don't want to be apart.
I'm yours. You're mine. That's it.
She probably wouldn't hate being alone if she took the time to understand what it was really all about.
She probably wouldn't hate being alone if she took the time to understand what it was really all about.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Poetry from the garden
Untitled.
What would it mean to she who passed
A single room with a lamp left on?
If two lovers wondered out into their garden
To live where twilight lives after dark
And sit among the leaves and flowers late to bloom
Where the wild rasberries grow
Like chords from the string
Only speaking of inconsequent things
Whe he writes, he'll think of her constantly
And she, understand what the writing means
All he may mark would be his own
Offset by what is hers alone.
What would it mean to she who passed
A single room with a lamp left on?
If two lovers wondered out into their garden
To live where twilight lives after dark
And sit among the leaves and flowers late to bloom
Where the wild rasberries grow
Like chords from the string
Only speaking of inconsequent things
Whe he writes, he'll think of her constantly
And she, understand what the writing means
All he may mark would be his own
Offset by what is hers alone.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Pieces
I'm getting lost today on the roads that lose me. Soemtimes I drive around trying to find reason becasue I struggle with choices. Trying to find someone or something that will take me seriously. I take a shit load of drugs, perscriptions that I am perscribed to depend on and drugs that I twist my mind into believing depend on me. We all need that feeling that we're needed. I can't imagine life any way diffrent.
The drives I've taken aren't helping me much, some days I'm not in any state to be behind the wheel, others, I'm too disgusted with the little pieces littering the highway to be disgusted with myself. I'm not in a very good place today.
I remember when I used to be the go-to girl for a hadful of friends. The best small group of people I could ever care to being associated with. In retrospect, all they did was care about me. Truly and I didn't care enough to notice it. Sure, everyone is after her own quest for self-acceptance and stability, but those friends cared what I thought, and I probably should have thanked them for that.
It's hard to sit here and say I should up and leave, just to get away from all this weight on my shoulders and all those pieces along the roadside, but those pieces are my own. Hopping on a bus and taking my changes out of here won't do much today. Perhaps another day; another dime.
So, I'm sitting here in a busted chair that's about as used and fed up as the body I'm in and still somehow comfortable. This, saying more than the soul I'm burying with alcohol. I had a cigarette and it's been a while. It's been a while and I'm thinking the only thing that's offered to take me seriously are the drugs I take when I can't relax.
There's no living life again.
The drives I've taken aren't helping me much, some days I'm not in any state to be behind the wheel, others, I'm too disgusted with the little pieces littering the highway to be disgusted with myself. I'm not in a very good place today.
I remember when I used to be the go-to girl for a hadful of friends. The best small group of people I could ever care to being associated with. In retrospect, all they did was care about me. Truly and I didn't care enough to notice it. Sure, everyone is after her own quest for self-acceptance and stability, but those friends cared what I thought, and I probably should have thanked them for that.
It's hard to sit here and say I should up and leave, just to get away from all this weight on my shoulders and all those pieces along the roadside, but those pieces are my own. Hopping on a bus and taking my changes out of here won't do much today. Perhaps another day; another dime.
So, I'm sitting here in a busted chair that's about as used and fed up as the body I'm in and still somehow comfortable. This, saying more than the soul I'm burying with alcohol. I had a cigarette and it's been a while. It's been a while and I'm thinking the only thing that's offered to take me seriously are the drugs I take when I can't relax.
There's no living life again.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Mirror, mirror, on the wall
I wonder sometimes if there is a cure. I wonder if I'll ever feel like I did when I was yonger, before I ever waited for a cure.
I guess it doesn't make any sense at all, whoever invented mirrors.
No one really wants to see herself, I figure. We're all hiding, hoping with our fingers crossed that somehow we'll make it out of the day better off than we were the day before. But no one's really out there exposing herself - her heart, passions, ambitions, everything. Instead everyone has a story to tell and a soul to protect. We've all got something to hide. All keeping secrets we never want to tell. We're all frail and breaking inside, hoping that we won't break anymore.
Personally, I'm best at hiding my hard days from the sun. Better than, say, hiding a frown from those around me, better than fighting back tears, et cetera. I'm best at taking my regrets to the sky, searching the constellations for forgiveness because I won't forgive myself. I won't forgive anybody else.
Occasionally I wake up in places that I don't remember falling asleep. I'm not talking about figurative imagery, and I'm not talking about forgetful debauchery. I mean, I actually think there is something terribly wrong with me, medically.
The unusual thing (beyond the fact that this happens to begin with) is that I wake up in these unusual places and decide that I enjoy being at those locations more than I liked being wherever it was where I'd been before. I like being able to disappear into a new location, and leave everyone around behind.
Sometimes I think that I may finally understand the wonder in my eyes when I look in a mirror. The wonder I see in the reflection staring back. I believe sometimes that I might finally understand the complex person that lies inside of that plane mirror and this body.
There is something wonderful about my friend, JP. About the way he sees things so clearly and he doesn't ever seem to have much to say. I mean I really would love it if he'd talk a bit more because when he does talk he's always saying something meaningful and thought-provoking. He's always giving everyone around him a real reason to listen.
Last night our paths crossed, and it'd been a while. It was a marvelous suprise.
After leaving, I did some thinking and realized that all this time I've blamed my heavy mind and heart on other people. Dismal friends having me down, apathy at home, work, et cetera. But, I realize that in all actuality it's just me being an idiot.
A selfish idiot.
And as the new year is quickly approaching, I think I am going to spend another year alone. In the most emotional sense of the word.
I should have no complaints. I am fortunate to have wonderful Lucas in my life, a decent family - what's left of it, and friends that are easy to count on.
Yet I'm always carrying so much fucking weight on my mind, and my reflection is perfectly weightless, as it is with the science of collimated beams of light.
I guess mirrors just happen to be the means of illustrating all of this, it isn't that mirrors are awful, it's just that forsaken realization that human beings are never going to reach the carefree weightlessness that lies in their reflections, in constellations, in the cruel world which encompasses them.
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