writing is the closest i come to expressing myself.
not fully, not even well most of the time. but
it’s the only way i’ve found to keep my sanity and myself alive.
the jumbled heap thrown out of the bin is methodically untangled.
i shared my words with two people today. i’m not sure if in a day or week or hour i’ll decide to abandon this ground.
(packing up my bin to get re-tangled.
dumping it on fresh land.)
even now, my brain is stunted. i am overthinking and overcompensating for a deficit i’ve created through conceptualization and catastrophic thinking.
worst case scenario? my words are ..
simple, plain, a “false bad” to the psychologists.
meaning i am. if my words are inadequate then i’m inadequate then maybe i’m not really of any quality any worthiness maybe
i am faking.
maybe this reality i’ve constructed is so weak that a breath, a flick of hair, the minuscule tremble from a pin dropping, would turn it to vapor.
i hate hate hate thinking of that night with her, because i refuse to let something so trivial have any significance in my life. But i continue to learn daily how the events of that night and those few days were a microcosmic representation of my life.
my total and complete reliance and trust in people who i’ve grown distant from.
my superiority complex, my externalization, my deepest fear:
being so embedded in falsity that i can no longer see the truth.
living in my fantasy as my true self decomposes.
thinking when writing is to lie with every character, word, sentence you write down.
authenticity is a struggle between romanticization and reality
how can i adore manipulation, lies, honesty, and innocence simultaneously?
how can i cling to both sides while screaming about my inherent goodness?
how can i be good without being simpleminded?
how can i keep my sanity while every day expanding my mind father and
farther until it blooms and withers and dies?
call me fake and i have nothing but proof.
this is confusion that runs so deep that i’m sure the tears that are too confused on when to present themselves and the emotions that have by now congealed into one thick sludge and the physical incompetence and the stunted sexuality aren’t even aware of their deficiency. the electricity has gone out in my head, and the appliances are dead for the moment. hopefully it’ll be on before the house gets too hot.
how can i find solid value in myself when i am constantly preoccupied with the fear that my life is an elaborate lie? how can i share myself honestly if i don’t think anything about me is honest?
the gospel of the lamb, live from the slaughterhouse
the early days of murder and savagery
confined and veiled,
the pain filling the walls,
heavy and soft, childlike.
(a rose glow, a silver glint)
she is a child, she is light.
(a white mist,a blur)
too late, too loud for her decry.
the knife to her throat,
skinning her strip by strip.
slowly, precisely, but all at once.
her wisdom, limited, but existent, will disintegrate with her brain matter,
all that is her ruthlessly ripped from existence.
i should have lived when i had the chance, she thinks, her stomach a well for her tears.
she is sinking.
the guillotine is lowering, but she sinks farther.
the lamb cries,
the well is full.
the lamb gurgles,
but does not notice.
the lamb cries for herself, because nobody else will.
i am a light and i am no i m i am iam iam i am iam i
stupid fucking lamb, you waited too long to live, and now you are dead.
it’s not brave
to turn a blind eye to the world
it’s not brave to ‘keep fighting’ and sit and simmer in the brew of intrusion and individually assigned value
this is not a good place
this is not a world i want to live in
it’s not brave to ‘soldier on’
it’s not brave to play into a system that is destined to fail because it is on a cycle that churns currency and spits it out on every rotation to the cruel few who designed it.
it’s not brave to listen to them.
accept and state your cowardess.
do not fool yourself into believing you are anything but a fly in a colony.
short lived, easily replicated and replaced, and easily influenced.
your mind aligning with them is not brave.
it’s normal. it’s what is supposed to happen.
it’s how we got to existence today.
stop selling the ideas of original and unique.
hardly anyone is.
and that’s okay.
i want to be leaves
rustling around in a warm evening breeze
inextricably connected to something bigger than them for their whole lives,
surrounded by others who are linked to that thing, too.
i want the changing of my beliefs and the recoloring of my being to be anticipated with childlike wonder,
rather than as a biological and chemical restructuring.
i want to be celebrated when i evolve and devolve, not mourned.
life is mutable.
i want to have my inevitable deterioration be expected and greeted with a gentle smile by those passing by, for others to know that in my winter i wither, but summer is soon.
i want my final death to be loved and cherished, to be seen as a beautiful way to allow the world and the cause to grow.
i want to be the leaves on the tree of existence that feed a bigger being, as it nourishes me back.
almost done in the land of trees