There's something wrong with me, but I can't get to it.  I've packed up all the little bits of ickyness and buried them so deeply, that I can't dig them up, even when I want to.  At first, I did it to protect myself, so that I could keep going, keep functioning.  Now, I can't stop.  Being filled with all of these rotting packages is beginning to manifest as something very unpleasant.  Beginning, ha!  I'm in an advanced stage of decomposition, more like. I feel like it's eaten out what used to be on my inside and left a certain heavy hollowness.  I'm like the walking dead.

I haven't the slightest idea how to undo what I've done.  I'm afraid that if I succeed at unwrapping those packages, I will be subjected to all the pain I have buried all at once.  How do I reach in and select only one, without causing an avalanche of putrified emotions to overwhelm me?  But I have to start somewhere.  It's my only hope.  I can't be the person I have become.  I can't smile or laugh or even cry (much).

The easiest package to reach should be the one I buried most recently.  But I'm so out of touch with my own comings and goings that I don't know which one that was.  I will have to wander the ruins of what was once my psychological well-being until I trip on a freshly dug plot.

Aha!  My career, there you are, I buried you just recently, you poor little thing.  You were so young and bright, once.  I had high hopes for you.  I remember your gestation like it was yesterday.  It was long and arduous, indeed. But it was full of excitement and wild ideas, and there was almost no end to my dreams of where you were going and what you would do once you were loosed upon the world.

And then, the daggers, both real and imagined, came.  You were rough on me, career.  You set me to sweating in a corner, by myself, for hours and hours and hours.  I was quite a trouper trough it all, actually.  At first, I seemed to have limitless energy, so you pushed me harder, then harder still.  For a long time, I took every punch, every kick and got up afterwards more determined than ever.  You never saw the internal damage that it was doing to me.  You just gave me pep talks and told me that my time was coming and that I would show everyone soon, and then pushed me back out there to try again.  You reminded me of my obligations and demanded that I sacrifice for the greater good -- you. Soon, the hills got steeper and the work got rougher, and you could see that it was taking a toll on me.  But instead of giving me a break, you reminded me that my time was just around the corner and told me to work harder.  And I did.  And the daggers started to fly again, both real and imagined, but most of all, they came from you.  And so I buried you, or at least I tried to.  But you won't stay there.  You won't die.  I can't give up on you so easily, can I?




I read back over this, and I am amused by the image of putrified emotions.

I see a tsunami of decomposed hope, aspiration, and yes, even happiness washing over me, filling my lungs with liquid decay and burning my eyes with acrid detritus. I am tossed about by the force of the wave, while bits of bloated debris floats, tantalizingly recognizable, out of reach. I feel like I am drowning, I want to drown, but it's like I'm breathing putrefied surfactant. Through the haze, I can see things, painful things, but I can't name them. They slink toward me through the darkness. I stare, blink once, and they eventually float away, having lost interest in my loss of interest in them. I want them to come back, so I can challenge them, face them, kill them, but when I open my mouth to speak, my mouth is flooded with liquid spoilage.

The wave is building, and I am but a small speck, insignificant against the force of its anger. The shore is many miles away and rocky. As the wave builds, so too I, adding gangrenous dreams and blighted plans to the ruined sea. Pushed and pulled along, under water, breathing this rotten filth, for miles and miles and miles...

Does everyone see how this ends? Is there a happy ending here? A way for me to crawl out of this stinking, rotting sea, cough up a few good chunks of lung and get on with it? Even so, how do I kill the slinkers who hide in the depths of the filth -- or am I supposed to kill them?  Perhaps I am to make my peace with them instead? Thus far, I have refused to face them altogether, or...something.  I don't yet know who my enemies are, or if, indeed, they are enemies at all.  It has been too painful to deal with, and so, I have not.

Blue Book 071793

Fresh paper. Slightly chewed, but a sufficiently full pen.  Mostly steady hand. Fingers capable of manipulating the aforementioned pen.  And there is something unsaid, perhaps unthought...

...i struggle to form the lines and dots which you have just read, are still reading. Each word is nothing grander than a bargain-rate illusion - a puff air of heavily made-up to appear more attractive, more worthy of your attention. But in reality, these pretty, vibrant, often angry words that pretend to fill every page in this notebook evaporate and are reclaimed by the very air from which they were stolen. In essence, my words convey nothing. No meaning. No truth. No deception. I suffer their inadequacies.

For every hour of sleep lost, nothing was gained.  All my frustration, hours spent sorting through a lifetime's worth of random thoughts and mostly useless ideas, enduring the pulsing throb of recollection -- memories that had dulled little (if at all) since their birth --  only to produce the meaningless scribble of a perverse mind. How I shimmer with the proud superiority of an ARTIST!  A woman seeing, with they eyes of a true visionary, her mind reflected on the pages smeared with ink.  As I near the end of another book, having traveled not nearly as far as I had hoped, I indulge in a brief review of these insightful essays, which PROVE my objective intellect, or so I thought!

Instead, i found a few moments of shining clarity, surrounded by abusive manipulation, serving only to repeat...reiterate...reassess a singular truth. The entirety of this book has been plagiarized.  I plagiarize myself, constantly. It is my most inexhaustible skill.

Blue Book 071693

There are moments like these, strange and juicy, waiting effortlessly to be popped.  If we should happen across one such small thread of time, the challenge shall remain undefined.  To stretch a second, to fuck the ring of all eternity -- there is no truth more real -- except perhaps in the sticky, slippery wetness of sex.

Pretend to clear away the moldy cobwebs of indifferent disgust. But I, for one, sense insincerity behind that plentiful smile you wear day after day after (blah, blah, blah...).  Deceit, unadulterated, reflects flatteringly in your eyes, as I would have expected.

Age seldom mellows those who most need it. Yet, a fire can learn to burn sparingly. It can be taught to destroy only that which it does not need to survive. This is the path taken by some sadists and nearly all freaks.

Sequins catch the light and hold it for ransom. No one pays and the light is set free. It nibbles like little rodents at its own embarrassment, but cannot coax even a small tear in the fabric that shields its nakedness.

Another lesson learned; another dream explodes into the sunlight, unseen. The sleeping cannot see their crimes.  So, I shut my guilty lids and try to seduce a new dream. One lies beneath another, each dream reflecting the one before.

Hello

I'm so fucked.  That's one thing that anyone who might wander onto this page should know about me, my fuckedness.  If you continue to read this, you're going to read a lot of complaining and whining about how miserable I am and how I wish my life were different.  I am guessing that I am not alone.  There must be many other people who share this state.

I started this blog because I used to write my thoughts down and found it very helpful in working out all of this crap (back when I was a raging drug addict and had what I thought was nothing to live for). I struggled through all of that, only to come out the other side to find myself wondering why I bothered.  Yeah, that was many moons ago, and a lot has happened since then -- some of it good -- but mostly I find myself wondering why I worked so hard to get past all of that, only to find myself here again, again.  It's the same old shit, but with fewer options.

I'll come back when I have more time and start to unwind it all...if I can figure out where and when to start.  Really, there's so many fucky moments to wade through.  I should be busy for awhile.  But this is my therapy.  I'll save myself a ton of money.  Dear diary, I had another shitty day...

I promised there would be a lot of whining.  Self-indulgent whining. Go and read something else.