Friday, June 12, 2009
We can sit in front of a lit screen and let fingers run wild in a frenzy of the inane, because it is easy. What is easier, is to explain it away. The excuses the mind makes to justify your delinquent fingers are rarely strong enough to hold up before a deeper examination. So the words you utter create a noise to distract you away from investigations of your self.
You're running away from meanings that words carry, because you're easily overwhelmed by how easy it is to misuse them. The sense of sanctity you attach to them turns into a neurosis translated into scattered dialog that means nothing. Nothing except your laziness, and your cowardice. This is saddening, to see you fleeing from your own words. Are you worried you'll run out of them, if you use them well? Or are you anxious that they may reveal too much of you, and make you a little vulnerable?
It is so hard to express the real, and the profane is such a comfort zone. How long can it all last, though? Eventually, the meanings that lie inside you will rebel and your little bubble of artificial peace will burst. It'll leave you more vulnerable than speaking yourself ever would. It might bring forth a hatred for your own fingers, your own tongue and your own mind.
It isn't just about words. It is about what you are not doing. The way you are stalling, and evading. It is the inertia you might've tried to label ennui, but didn't(you are not yet delusional). You know you have a lot to do, a lot to subject yourself to. Every minute I waste, there's the sound of a clock ticking in the back of my mind. Which is so easily drowned out, sometimes by alcohol. At other times, by the ruckus you surround yourself with.
Staying alone is different. Alone is alone, only when it is you, and not masks or acts. Solitude doesn't mean blankness, and numbness. It means a self-reflection and a painful honesty. You make plans. You keep thinking of when you will run away, or when you will achieve what you are capable of. Then, instead of action, you let futile thoughts run amok inside you. Your hands are tied by the meaningless threads you create. Of people, with a childish chaos and a space where everything can exist except yourself.
Maybe it's time to go back a few years and remember what it was like to do, and to feel. Not just to want and to build castles of sand. Your theory of evolution is obviously flawed. You concede gracefully, and rebuild.
There is no such thing as a "no exit". I'm making mine now. See you on the other side, if you live there, too.
There was ground below me, which keeps slipping away now. It vanishes even when I sleep. And when it is gone, I take a walk on the moon. The moon that is made of my cheese, and the one where gravity barely exists. So that when you jump, you never return to the surface. No downward spirals, no crash landings.
When they say "your heart is in the right place", what place are they talking about? I have so many imaginary places, and like my moon made of cheese, they all have craters. Those can be filled by time but not space. Don't question this, because you'll go back to yesterday, if you do. And given the right crevice, you might land at right now. Which is the hardest to imagine.
If you dismiss the way the cold creeps into your heart, filling it with blood, you have never felt anything. To feel is also a function of time, and then we realize that space is often fiction. You cannot move through it freely, hence it does not exist. Even if it did, it couldn't course through your veins the way past moments and half-seconds do. Maybe because of the weight.
There is always this fascination around, of water filling your lungs and pushing the air out. Vacuum is unacceptable, so a river must take its place. Fishing is not allowed, and please do not dump your waste into it. The nets that we used to clean it with have too many holes. Because of the sudden writer's cramps.
Like this one, suddenly holding my fingers. Which is why I have to stop now.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
My promises, the ones I made to myself, they get forgotten. The ones I have inside me, that stumble out of a line of disciplined thoughts, are nagging the fuck out of me. But I know they'll get forgotten, eventually.
Fifty lashes for them.
So here we are, again. Writing and thinking and writing and the order is not really apparent.
There's the tiny matter of self-absorption being so immense it ends up absorbing your self. That is some fucking irony. The idea may seem purely figurative, but it is real. Watch as your self gets hidden by the shadow of your mirror image. Watch.
This question, it bugs: What is it that you are doing? I mean, really doing?
The other one: Where is this going?
And another one: Do you give a shit?
The answers: Go to sleep.
So that's that.
And the bubble's getting bigger, and the really tiny bit in you that's still got perspective is shivering under the size and the sheer devastation it'll cause when it bursts. But then maybe that part is the cute little drama queen and the rest of you is pragmatic, sensible and suitably indifferent.
So she's sitting and typing and she needs to figure out why the hell she suddenly needs to do this. I thought she had stopped, and no one really knew if that was a good thing or bad.
Half-afraid of resolves and literally shit-scared of declarations. Why don't you step out, potter around a bit, have a look about and then see if you're ready now? We'll discuss this further, but you gotta have the tiny bit figured out, first.
Ok, so anyway, this shit is personal.
It's a funny concept. Kind of like an afterdeath. I can't seem to pinpoint how, but it seems about right.
So getting back to the store. Which isn't really important at all. She's standing in line, the head above the clouds thing going on, and then a sudden flash. Of what? This niggling little detail that is arguably reality. I'm not even debating(or arguing), but still. So there's this sudden blindness, and you suddenly think you're seeing. I can't stop laughing at the notion of enlightenment.
Right now, while typing. But at that time, I was blinded, and stricken. Imagine her being swept over by this nausea of an odorless nature, like the consciousness of the chicken burgers trying to engulf my consciousness, or whatever it is that I tend to exist in a state of.
This is confusing, because I can't even decide whether it's a white blindness or a black darkness, or if there's any color involved at all. So you go on and breathe. You breathe and you hold it in. You're holding it in so hard that it goes away, in revulsion. Then it's all fine again. Like this sudden shooting pain in the chest which vanishes so quickly you wonder if it was ever there to begin with. You might light a smoke or try and hold on to a metaphorical railing, and there's this stupid smile. It's not really on your face, but lurks around for a while. It even enacts itself through your fingers, and the gaps between them. It's overwhelming the tiny light of a cigarette, and the smoke carries it to your lungs. They fill up and you're happy now.
You're reminded of what real is, and you're reminded that you never forgot, to begin with. These are pinpricks of shadows, not of light. You're the one with a good reason, here.
So that's how she figures it goes. That's what happens to the feelings you don't feel. They take their sweet revenge, but they're not spiteful, so they leave you in a blissful peace.
A calm full stop.
Friday, July 4, 2008
The haze of emotions biting the back of my neck. To feel everything acutely but remember none of it a moment later.
The idea of a life, the imagination of living a second makes me happy. Happy enough for me to die in my sleep tonight. The intoxication that follows when the dullest moments turn into you and explode with orgasmic peace inside your head.
To be able to smile so much that insanity begins to reach you. Only to pass you by.
In those moments when all is chaotic and your mind is in order, there emerges a longing. For more. Peace doesn’t mean contentment. It means an acknowledgement of all you have, your desire for an endless more and the certainty that you shall have it.
When you realise how every conversation except the one you have with your self, is a minor sin leaving a moon-shaped scar in the back of your mind.
That somehow these scars disappear everytime you write this. This is not an admission. It is not a declaration. It is your thoughts in exaltation so that they turn tangible.
You are here now, and even when you are gone from here, it wouldn’t change anything. Except the semantics that your inadequacies may generate. And now you want to protest and say how you have no inadequacies. Knowing that is foolish.
Denying yourself is not pain. It is perfidy. Against who? You tell me.
Sometimes this childlike desire. To run wild, naked and on shards of uncomfortable lives screwed over by you. To shout out a billion times how happy you are and that life is so fucking amazing. How you find everyone so absurd for not being happy all the time and how you are happy even when you’re saddest.
Cut down thoughts, emotions, words into fragments and place them in a carefully drawn chain of events. Of consequences. Make it simple. You think simple is what is convenient? Or is it what gives your mind the most clarity? You know that is a rhetorical question and that I know why I must type it out aloud.
How can I not be hopelessly madly in love with myself?
This is when I am about to stop writing and melancholia sets in, but I must stop because I am leaking from every corner, every curve. The words that seep out sometimes, the ones you can read are not meant to be spoken or written. They are too shy, and they veil themselves with excesses. If you cannot understand that you must shut your eyes, go back and keep the backspace button in your head pressed for a while. Do not save changes, and exit.