April 1, 2012

Earned Bruises

Going in circles.

Wanting to write. 

I want to release all these thoughts that build up inside my head. Use my inner misery to enlighten others or at the very least give them an insight into who I may be as a person.

I want to write but I always find myself saying I’ll do it tomorrow” but then the echo of you have to do it now or you’ll never do it.”

But of course, whenever I try to write, I get bored and it feels empty or bland. It has always been the case, however that I have been on this road. Only classes in high school I got anything above a D in were reading comprehension and English.

Ask me how many math classes I failed. Read: all of them.

But, I get these short bursts of wow, maybe I can pull a few words together into a coherent little blast of relevance. Perhaps I can see something better coming from the diarrhea feelings inside my head.”

Now is one of these moments but then I get paranoid that it’ll all read as one big block of babble.

Today, I was endlessly miserable.

All day, almost immediately after I woke up I was in a death-wishing mood.

There were a few moments of smiles and laughter. They were valuable moments, but they only served as a higher cliff to fall from once the day dragged on back into misery land.

Having nobody to see and nothing to really do is maddening.

This computer sucks me dry and not in a way I might enjoy.

If I weren’t so addicted to this bright light in my eyes, I might throw this laptop against the wall and run out of this house naked and screaming.

As my mind runs around the drain; writing, photography, sex, loneliness, drugs, and many possible futures, I contemplate if it could ever be possible.

Moments of pure confidence of what I want to do in the future are immediately proceeded by moments of complete doubt and confusion.

Long periods of time where I pace around my house feeling utterly disconnected with the Humanity I see on the internet. Are these people really real? I’ve always felt this. Even in middle school, I always wondered in a solipsist fashion, am I all alone in existence? Is everyone else just a shadow?

While I do not quite feel that way anymore, I still feel a large gulf exists.

I want to be able to stop being such a little pussy inside and bridge this gap, to decide to act my age”, whatever that means.

I know I have matured in some ways in the last decade, but at the same time, I feel completely immature when I want to be strong and confident.

I need these things for myself, perhaps I could have some semblance of control in my life. Which, of course, would just be an illusion.

Perhaps I could stop writing bullshit that was flushed down the toilet ages ago but here I am writing about it. I want to ride a train, I’ve never ridden a train before.

I want to sit on a train with someone.

On some sort of drug. Most likely a psychadelic.

Discussing existence, laughing, smiling, and connecting on an interpersonal level that is rare.

I want to dare them to get off with me on a random stop and just explore the unknown whatever of whatever.

Walk into some dive bar or shitty comedy club.

Jump on open mic and bomb horribly talking about my dick being weird looking or how I liked looking at naked girls at the age of 5.

Realizing my mind is a disaster of sexual confusion and maligned emotion.

But then my companion and I race out of this place onto some other location.

A forest, on a rainy day.

We are soaked but we don’t care.

Well, we do.

We don’t wanna catch pneumonia but we also don’t want to give a shit.

Capturing endless curiosity through photographs. Making the truest form of art I can imagine. Just living in another world where you need not care where you tread.

If you fall down and get a bruise, you smile.

You capture it and see what other bruises you can earn.

Creating art in this rainy forest, as if we had gone back in time with a camera, all alone in some vast forest and perhaps on the entire continent.

All sorts of animals were watching us from the edge of our vision. Our stench was unlike anything they’ve ever smelt before.

Then I look up and I realize I am still in this room.

My slight grin turns into a giant frown.

My mind screams and examines how I might get out as soon as possible.

Nothing solid comes to bare.

I panic and anxiety runs over me as misery creeps back in.

Fuck, I was just feeling so awesome imagining this great adventure into another world, another universe.

The concept of sharing this with another person was even more gratifying. But reality had pulled me back to the present while laughing maniacally.

Probably just my dick of an ego.

I steamed.

I steam.

I just got lost in this perfectly imagined place.

I want magic to happen before I wake tomorrow.

I want to wake up in a different place, ready to do something I might enjoy.

Weaken the misery to a memory, at least for a moment, or a collection of them.

Court, money, escape, car, sex, loneliness, creativity, and ugh.. love.

Despicable creature.

Is this writing? Is this juvenile prattle?

My eyes tell my brain Yes”, I cannot help but agree.

However, I do see some small glimmer of hope in these words. In the future, as long as I do not get too close to cliff with no one else around. I may just tumble, I may just jump.

Fuck it”, I’d say as I speeded toward blackness.

There is a certain kind of beauty I want that is so distant.

Or that is that my feelings tell me.

If I could just touch the beauty, if I could just taste it. If I could just devour it.

Would it become part of me?

Would I like myself more?

Would I harbor something other than self revulsion?

But, here I sit.

An empty space behind some eyeballs that knows not what I will do, that knows not what will happen, but I am just sure something will happen.

Perhaps I’ll be surprised. If I let myself.

Until then, I can write. Even if it is full of faggotry.

Good night.


dissociative imagination love suicide writing Writing

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