Thursday, January 15, 2009

open

here it is. still. it won’t go away. the wound. it opens less now. I think it festers, always. sometimes it seems better. I rise above; it doesn’t hurt. I can see the future. it is bright and open. I just have to take it. but it won’t stay. it keeps opening.

triggers.

and it opens.

still there. old, very old. all the desperation, desperate moves to get away. then giving up. rat in a cage, being shocked. no escape. just settle down, let it hurt, no escape. and the desperation, you spit on it, you laugh, you sneer. you fucking, fucking assholes. worthless, so much more worthless than what you look down on. born under a wing, knowing nothing, fucking nothing of anything real. run about, buy trinkets, suck each others dicks.

you think you feel real things, so sure of it. sad face, happy face, just faces.

you can’t help not knowing, the wing never knew either, and you, under its shadow, can’t see out. don’t mistake it. but you can’t hear. you will anyway, think you can hear. you can’t hear me tell you that you can’t hear. I wish you could hear that much. so you could know, just a little.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

irony

I have forever been fruitlessly agonizing over the meaning of this strange life. To understand where I fit in it; how to maneuver around these others that vaguely resemble me. I have wasted a lot of time, of life this way. I have made some headway, but not enough to balance what was put in.

The world around me is humming, while all around lay artifacts of my confusion. I stand ready to move, to clear the rubble and then, then I don’t know. I’ll step into something new.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

the right life?

There is another side. The side that wants to find someone uncorrupted, someone who gives me hope that there is more than I have seen. To find that young person and help them, lift them up, help them to stay above the horde and soar. I know they are out there, but they are so hard to find. A needle in a stack of needles.

Friday, January 2, 2009

(N)ever

It was going badly. So it was only a matter of degree. Not only, as if only a difference of mere unhappiness or agony; only a difference of discomfort and misery. How badly it would have gone I could only guess. “If only” never matters. It was.

Still, I imagine the day before and the day after. Always, this old movie in my head, filled in with memories of memories. Always sad, the pain always stronger, more poignant than what happiness I’m sure there was, what must have been a milquetoast happiness, mild and unremarkable. And I try to trace a trajectory of where I would have gone. It could well have been worse. I never considered that before. But I remember vague plans I had to escape my unhappy circumstances that might possibly have been realized had I not been shocked into a two year long catatonic state. Probably not worse than what happened, but one never knows.

He could have done worse to me had he lived. The things he did do, the ones I shrugged off as inconsequential, though they weren’t, had he stayed, he could have improved upon. Any number of things, from actively damaging me further, to abandoning me, even though alive. Mon Frere.

There was a sister, a mother, a father, who ranged from useless to destructive.

Now, how can I, with all of this, imagine you? How could you, no matter how well I tell my tale, imagine me? How are we to weigh each other?