I am sorry to everyone who follows this blog. I have not posted in a while mostly because I haven’t written anything in a while. It’s funny when life gets in the way of well… life. It is not always easy to write, nor is it always good to. The changes in me caught me by surprise and it took some time to adjust. For those who know me I am still pretty much two steps from self destruction and suicide the crazy has just been calmer the last few days.
The good news is that in the process of adjusting I met someone very close to what and who I am.
The bad news is that in the process of adjusting I met someone very close to what and who I am.
Obviously I haven’t decided whether or not this is a good thing or a bad thing. I think I can only wait and see what happens. It is strange and kind of wonderful to understand someone and I am still not sure that this whole thing is wise.
Hopefully I will be able to pick back up writing, I just can’t seem to find the latch inside my head that lets all of the crazy wander out and onto the page. If anyone has any ideas on how to do this I am up for just about anything.
For those who need it I give you an obscenely happy goat.
It sounds strange but the Russian roulette of my emotions for you get the better of me. It’s funny that I need physical sensation to remember the act of dying. I sit trying to put it into words but there are none really. None that matter at least. The cold metal barrel and the soft beckoning taste of gunpowder always astound me. It isn’t like anything I have felt before. It is good to remember how to feel at least. It’s like trying to catch a dream.
I know I can do it even if this doesn’t make much sense. I remember what it was like but I there is a block there when I get to how it is supposed to feel. The familiar ache is gone but it has left something infinitely more horrible behind. Everything is so much quieter now so much more peaceful which makes it all the more devastating. I would do anything to get me back. Anything to break this silence.
How do you say to people that something is wrong… no I mean really really wrong like horribly deadly carving yourself up into little itty bitty pieces wrong?
And here for those of you who like them are nifty pictures.
A hate has been rising up in me. It started as a slow burn that only twinged a little bit. You know the feeling when you see, do, or have done to you something that is only slightly unjust. It can be pried out of you with a kind word or happy thought. If it is not excised it continues to grow into a burning, a torturous heat with hard edge. It can still be cut from your heart by pure unadulterated lust and the wonderfully rough sex that comes with it. The kind of physical contact that leaves you sore and aching in the morning because you both have taken the hate out on each other and are better for it. This is the kind of fucking that most people only engage in once or twice and think that it is adventurous. The kind where the participants have no idea how close they’ve come to tearing each other apart.
It wandered into the territory of a bright flame as it grew. The hard edge to it becoming a bludgeon working further into my soul. Twisting into it like something wrong and painful. Although much harder to do because the edges of the heart are torn and bruised it can still be torn from the body, but only by using another as you are used in a visceral meeting of the two sexes. The kind of fucking that not many know and others think they’ve gone insane to engage in. The kind where you rip into the other person taking pain and pleasure instead of just giving it.
Then it turned to a roaring fire as it continued to grow. The edge to it is no longer hard but sharp as it shreds the heart piercing the soul before pulling out again only to ram back in. The only way to extinguish it is bloody and painful and kept quiet in the dark.
Finally the flames of the fire turned dark as it consumed me until it wasn’t a fire at all anymore just a burning hatred that echoes up from my eviscerated soul. A wealth of it pours off of me causing even the most oblivious of people to shy away. A darkness so deep and black that to rip it from me would tear apart what little is left. So entwined in what is me it would pull out my very soul. Still it burns deep inside leaving bladed teeth marks wherever it touches.
The monster inside me growls twisting its body right behind my eyes. I can feel it slither turning circles. Its body sliding sharp scales against my brain leaving lacerations that not even I can understand the implications of. I hear its rumbling breath, the gravelly whoosh that a large reptile at rest makes. It is much better when it is sleeping. I don’t have to feel it move restlessly like it is now. It wants something although it will not tell me what and I can’t fathom what it could possibly be. Sometimes it talks in low growling voice sounding much like the rumble of an earthquake sending vibrations through me. At times these vibrations are pleasant and at others horrific. At times it makes my entire body quake with the force of it. It echoes in my head painfully when it wants something as it is doing tonight.
If it would just tell me what it needs at this point I would gladly give it over without hesitation just to make it quiet again. The bladed tail swishes back and forth drowning the other voices, the quieter voices. The ones that tell me in their strange double way of speaking what I should do. These are the voices that make want to slice into my skin to let them out. There used to be only one crying in the distance but now there is a cacophony of speech sometimes drowned out by the dragon curled behind my eyelids. I can almost see him when I close my eyes. He is getting stronger and the rational voices are getting weaker. His frightening visage scares others when he peeks through my eyes. Others see something in me that scares them when he looks directly at them.
Ut alii do vita et sanabitur anima mea. Omnibus Angelis sanctis, et daemones praeesse dolor sit moriar et alius potest salvari. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.
I want to know why my heart beats faster. What causes the tightness in my chest when I see certain things. They aren’t the things that you would ordinarily have this feeling for. I want to live in a dream. Not a particularly pleasant dream but a dream none the less. I know this is not normal and I know that I like the wrong things and it is not healthy, the constant desire to escape into something that is both infinitely worse and infinitely better. You see, the things in my dreams make grown men scream and these are not even the nightmares. I want to feel them, touch them break through the boundary, the thin veil that separates this reality from the next. No I am not talking about death I am talking about the feeling you get when you walk into a dark room and are reaching for the light switch… You know that feeling like there is something standing just inside the door waiting for you to touch your hand to its cold dead one because its hand is on the switch too. The sigh of relief you let out suddenly realizing you are holding your breath as your fingers flip that switch and light floods the room scaring all of the things that live in the dark back into the shadows. Secretly you are grateful as you admonish yourself for being uneasy because you know there is no such thing as monsters. I do the same thing only I would rather touch that cold hand covering the switch than have light flood the room. I would rather be invited across that veil just to see what is real.
The practice of work avoidance is when you know you should be working. You are sure of it because there are deadlines to be met and things to do yet you just can’t bring yourself to do it. Everything in your mind is screaming that you should be working but when you sit down to actually work nothing happens. So you go back to what ever you were doing. In my case it is reading things that most would never even think to look at and writing this so I don’t feel like I have accomplished nothing.
Does anyone else do this or is it just me?
Differences between what others see and how we see ourselves.
Not my art – if I knew who did it I would most certainly give them credit.
This reminded me of a graphic novel I once read. The series is called the Sandman and one of the best in it is called Death the High Cost of Living. I find it even more ironic because one of the main artists for it killed himself not long after it was published.