alcohol. cigarettes. drugs. over processed foods. general anger, hatred. loneliness. stress. resentment. i choose my poisons carefully. every one could be the final prick which breaks the dam.
i can’t imagine the amount of dissonance that a self-aware parent experiences under capitalism. how can you teach your child the values of communication, cooperation, and sharing, because you know that’s what creates a good person, and then go out into a world that destroys anyone who practices them? how can you live knowing that sending them out into capitalism will confuse them in a way that either hardens them or breaks them?
the sign of a good parent is one with a child who didn’t let go of those values, who, even if forced to submit to capitalism, remains a true and good intentioned spirit. and if you’re a beautiful soul who is either fighting capitalism and the degradation of humanity within it openly or internally, you were taught to love with strength and honesty. if a parent didn’t teach you this, some kind of authority in your life did. i learned the partly from my parents, partly from my sister, partly from my professors, and partly from the kind and beautiful people on the internet, who across the world are fighting to keep a hold on their empathy and passion. we need to respect respect respect and honor those people, and we need to be those people for young people. it’s never too early to be an influence of hope, kindness, and positivity.
my dad was in love with nature, and the forces which created it. a love that faded in turn with his heart. my uncle told me stories of dad chasing storms when they were young. and how one time, he walked, entranced, towards a tornado, before grandma hollered for him to get inside. i remember how he would sit, alone, on the patio, shielded from the pounding rain. how the more violent the storm, the more excited he became. looking back now, he was at peace, which he so rarely was. something in the electricity of it all recharged him.
he left a lot behind in his life. religion, softness, humor, compassion. some kind of quest to shed his beauty in preparation for his lengthy rot. i think he tried to leave this behind, too, but never quite could. i’m not sure his life was all he wanted it to be. a brilliant mind, ripped apart by his own fingers. purposeful destruction from rage, stress, poison, hatred. to know the power of his hatred, and to know that he hated himself most of all…
i called you five times today. never through any conventional tool.
you answered on the third ring, the fourth time. you heaved a sigh and then came the click.
good morning, my love.
i tore a bit of my heart off for you to try today like warm bread.
i offered it to you and you took it mindlessly, your eyes darting over your work as you softly placed me on your tongue— in a flash, i was gone.
i hope you’re well. i wrote 4 thousand poems and 5 thousand novels and 6 thousand scripts and wanted 7 thousand touches and 8 thousand stares and 9 thousand kisses and had 10 thousands dreams of you tonight.
i close my eyes to see you and you have no form. you are a disembodied spirit to stir the world. sometimes you take the shape of a very beautiful young girl. you can see how your light has changed the body. i marvel.
in the mood to hack things up and sever ties. don’t know if i want to splash my hands in the well of my tears or the blood of my fear. proceed in a haphazard and indelicate scraping of my soaking palm across the canvas of their perception. and still. there’s a disconnect. the fabric tears from the weakness of wetness or the transference is minimal. something. because i write and i lose it or i think it and it jumps back inside my head to the place where words can’t stretch and i’m left watching, pathetic and slack-jawed. like a child i sit, empty minded with a shallow disgruntlement.
i exist in the peripheral and it drains me. the highs, too high, the lows, too low. erin was right. but then, should i dull myself to feel right, or would it be a different form of maladjustment? would any contentment be coated in a layer of shame and sorrow? should i cave to their definitions and swallow emptiness? maybe there is such thing as overthinking. maybe erraticism is a symptom not a cure. or maybe i should finally sleep. or maybe the awareness negates the pathology. maybe all and none. i’m not sick, i’m not crazy, i’m not different. i just record what you let float through your forehead and dissolve into the air