Obvious day of reflection.

A mere 28 years ago I burst forth into a world I had no choice in coming into, and I'm not exactly sure if I would have entered it so easily had I known what would be in store. I didn't choose to be born, but as long as I'm here I may as well kick a couple of ideas around. I recall the week of my birthday last year, writing a now vanished piece on the reflection of the past 27 years on my old blog. I'm not exactly sure what it said, but my fear is that it isn't too different than what I will write now. It's a shitty feeling, thinking that you're pretty much in the same spot you were at this time last year. It's not true, actually, but the internal feelings are much the same, despite the obviously contradictory evidence of where my life is now vs last year. Don't worry, I'm not feeling the need to reflect openly about all the differences that a year has produced, both overwhelming and subtle, just that no matter what I feel on the inside the outside is obviously different.

Where does that leave me then? It leaves me with another year of experiences, another year to look forward too, and a solidified reminder of how little I know. And I'd like to keep it that way, at least for a large number of years to follow. All the apathy, depression, anxiety, self-loathing, misanthropy, and confusion keep leading me towards one solitary conclusion: Through it all, to see the beauty, passion, love, and to embrace the negatives, isolation, and authentic fright in the world, all of this, will help both leave you whole and able to appreciate everything for what it is. At the very least, this is my hope.

Awkward?

Try as I might, to never be the one to fuck someone or be fucked by someone - we may call this trying to be human(e) - why does it often feel like I'm left crumpled in a pile on the dirty concrete floor of a basement? I'm gonna be shitting blood for a week and the internal chaos brought to the surface isn't as cathartic as one would hope. Never mind this state though, because it's only made worse by the fact that I have blood on my hands too. Well, I suppose that in this analogy, I'd have blood on my dick; but I don't really want to split hairs, and it's all just ugliness anyhow. Honestly, it's not even this severe, it just feels like it for no reason. And the imagery is pretty ripe, right? But I still can't shake that nauseous feeling in the depths of my being and it keeps getting in the way of my life.

The way in which a small amount of fabric hiding the damp and erect parts of the body, I had a dream solely about this the other night. There begins this feeling, when fabric meets fabric, brushing together and breath is heavy. A tinge of anticipation and heightened sense of smell, taste, and touch. More than any of that though, are those indescribable feelings that only come along for the ride here. They swell and dissipate the moment of cloth less contact, to make way for other, even less hard to describe sensations, but this may be as important. There is an inherit awkwardness that they carry. A sense of dread and passion, inhibited but only vaguely. It feels like a totally honest and pure moment; completely real in all ways. And there is no faking it, no synthesis for it, no simulation. That touch, it's fiery and brutal, and in the right situation, indicative of an honesty that can't be corrupted - at least not in the moment.

I don't know why it seems so damn important, but dreams are usually that way. There was a pure joy in that dream world; it was full of laughter and fun, full of passion and the anticipation of the other. It showed me how readily my mind is to move on, that what is holding me back, in this place of sorrow, regret, and self-doubt, doesn't even exists anymore if I will but release it. Armoring is something I've always done, and it's time to let it all go - not just the recent, but all the bullshit and fear, all the pain and lying to myself. The world may be a sick, grey, soulless place full of monsters and kings, but if beauty lives anywhere, it's inside. Past the guilt; past the hatred; past the depression. Freedom is in there, I just need to know where to look, I suppose.

E & T

What they tell you, it's all true. You really are alone in this cold, dark universe. But that's the point; the unknown silence of being alive. Sure, it isn't discussed much, but those voices that reach out to you in the midst of the barren night, they speak the truth. It's not about fear, it's not about depression or loneliness. It's about the realization that you, and only you, are responsible for your life; responsible for being isolated or not - and while it's not totally irrelevant, you are still alone, isolated or not. The fact is that no one will ever know you, not in the way that you know you. No one will ever come close to understanding, really understanding who you are and what you crave. A small amount of people may briefly peer in, but it will be rare and fleeting. Treat it with reverence.

So, I sit here alone. I sit here alone and wishing I wasn't. Don't take that as a plea for pity, that isn't what I'm looking for and you'd be completely missing the point. They do speak the truth, remember? I can't seem to, not from one paragraph to the next - let alone one day to the next. These letters feel clunky, oversized and no sense of their own power and strength. The words don't always flow out in the way I'd like them to, not with the bottleneck between my brain and this type you're currently reading..

xz

The more "connected" I am, the less connected I feel to myself. When I have something to pour myself into I feel generally better about the whole state of affairs that is the world; well maybe not better, but there is a greater sense of absurdity and humor there. When I have nothing to pour myself into, or, better yet, choose nothing, nothing can stop the flow of foul decay running through my mind. Murky with death and plague, fragments of the discarded, and a very specific rotting smell that wafts up and never leaves your nose. That familiar smell of organic matter having broken down to the point of liquid, sitting in the hot sun, becoming a solid again - fungus.

Temporary reprieves help pass the time, but many make me feel worse in the end, like more of a failure, more of an asshole, more isolated from myself. Sleep doesn't help anymore, when I can even catch it. And I know that this will all pass, but knowing that doesn't seem to help right now. Apparently, nothing seems to help right now. Yeah, not even this, as I had hoped it would. Putting things into words, for me, often merely solidifies how I'm feeling and makes it immediate. The realization of how you really feel can be a great thing, but if I already am aware, slapping it across my face does little to relieve the tension. So why do I do this to myself? Fuck.

cx

From the very pit of my stomach - sometimes it just creeps up - this sick, nauseated feeling. A mix of remorse, fear, panic, and pain; but what better way to spend a Tuesday night? About 1/3rd of the time I feel like a fraud, 1/6th is spent feeling like the victim of my own stupidity, another 1/3rd feeling like said idiot, and the final 1/6th feeling pretty ok, all things considered. That makes a whole number, right? Yes. But not a whole person, never a whole person, apparently.

The other night, asleep, I thought that the only way to save myself, yeah - save myself...? - was to stand up on my bed and grab something from on top of the bookshelf next to it. I awoke to find myself doing just that. Now, whatever it was I was looking for wasn't there. Sure, there are a couple of books up there, a pile of zines, and a few bottles of Jameson and Bacardi, but not the key to my own salvation. As I came out of my dream I damn near fell of my goddamn bed.

Is any of this meaningful? Maybe, because even in my fucking dreams I'm in need of saving. Even in my fucking imagination, there is someone who will come around and help me live my life to it's full potential. Let's face it: my psyche is fucked. Let's drink to that!

Come, watch my world crumble. Watch my sense of self-worth destroyed before your very eyes. Tickets are only $6, plus you get to see the ape-man; a creature so foul and primal that no gaze meets his eyes. Today only, we're also throwing in a comedic act featuring "The Professor," who will regale you with knowledge from across the library that you just don't give two fucks to know! One night only folks, step right up!

Sacrifice to the gods of passion.

What a fickle bitch. One day I want one thing, and the next something totally fucking different. I'm not intentionally making my life painfully stupid, but when that's all you know what the hell else are you going to do? Doesn't age, this one here. Well, not in an emotional or interpersonal way at the very least. He's got a few more lines in his hands, a few less hairs on his head everyday, and the back pain is unrelenting; but really he's no worse for the wear than anybody else. It's the child that hid behind when the lines started forming, as the tattoos scraped on, and as the awkwardness of youth faded a bit. I think he was under that tiny desk, next to all the other tiny desks sitting before the enormous black-board and the teacher with a frantic night life. Small enough that no one would catch on that he is still there; years have gone by. The cramping in his legs, the hunger in his little stomach are both far gone. He can't even feel those short legs and his stomach scarcely exists - shrunk down to the size of a marble. Something else has taken that hunger that no longer exists and the pain long forgotten.

No one came back for him. He was just playing a joke, hiding for fun, not trying to hurt anyone. It was a game, like we use to play with the neighbors: you'd end up hiding behind the dumpster, or around the house next door. But they always, always came to get you. No hiding spot was good enough to fool anyone for too long; aside from up those trees. He could climb up higher than anyone, and once he got there he would all but disappear, as skinny as he was. There would be one final call, after everyone had been caught, and he'd climb down proud that no one could get him. Finally, he'd get to be "it."

This wasn't like those other times, though. No one made a final call, like in the game, like all those times he played that game without telling anyone. Hiding in the grocery store, or hiding in the brush, waiting to be scolded for not being ready to leave, or cleaned up to eat supper. No one made any noise. The group just got up and left. He was playing a joke and no one even knew he was gone. No one noticed, for a long time.

He's still sitting there, but his waiting has changed. The rush from the success of the hide faintly lingered after the initial shock of no one coming to get him, coming to scold him. But even that is gone. What happens to a child you ignore for sixteen years? Who does he become, bitter and alone. Wanting you to love him so much, but pushing away because you didn't come at the right time. Pushing away because you, in your absence, ignored him; and maybe you didn't even know he was gone. Like I said, what a fickle bitch.