Again

Set match to gas again,
To clear it up again,
Strike a spark again,
To watch it die again.

It's dark again,
I'm cold again,
Echos again,
Repeating again,
So sublime again,
The message's lost,
Again.

Where did it begin again?

How do we keep score again?
Are we really messuring by THIS standard again?

Crashed your car again,
Lost your love again,
"Just a metaphor," again. 

Four Oh Four again,
Time to maintain again,
Spin and balance the tires again,

Schedule a visit again,
To tell the story again,
Hear the advice again,
Transform again,
Be well again,
If only for a while,
Again.

Write it again,
Recite it again,
Revise it again,
Forget it again.

I see
Slow break again.
I am
Damaged again.
I feel
Forgotten again.
I have
Isolation again.
I fear
Abandoned again
I act
Indifferent again.

Written for fun, again.
Expression, again.
Reality is different, again.
Words are filtered, again.
To this medium, again.

Catch 22

If I say I'm alright, when I'm not, people will worry less.

If I say I'm not alright, when I'm not, people will worry and want to help.

Then, I don't know how to be helped. So they worry and offer as much help as they would have if I was "alright."

If I can't be helped by anyone but myself, why ask for help?
If I can't help myself, asking for help is useless because I don't know how to be helped.

I fade away, because people let me.
I fade away, because if I can't be helped, I don't want to be a buzz-kill at the party.
I fade away, because I say I'm alright, but can't figure out how to be helped, even if I told people I wasn't alright, and needed help.

Depression sucks.

The Simple Conflict

I write down what bothers me, and want to share it.
But then I think no one can help, or no one cares, so why bother?

So it stays inside, and eats me up. But I want to let it all out.
But I can't, because I'm so certain I can't be helped by anyone.

I'm tired; I've seen this cycle for far too long, and know it too well.

If I could think of how I could be helped, I'd be fine. But I don't know how to be helped.

Headed to rock bottom, slowly but surely.

Mood Swings

Today, I had happy moments. I had sad moments. I had moments when I felt legitimately okay, and moments when I really wasn't sure I was going to make it.

Life was beautiful, and life was out to get me. Or I'm out to get me.
Life is beautiful, but I'm not always sure I can keep up with it.
Sometimes I enjoy experiences. Random experiences.

Driving home from the train station, to drop my sister off before I head off to work. The sun is setting, the western sky is overcast. KRCL on the radio, playing The Black Keys, So He Won't Break. I remember the time, well enough, to be able to look these things up. But what I remember is changing into the left lane, and the way the light hits the street and the trees. Diffused; blue, with hints of golden. maybe the leaves, maybe the subliminal hues from the setting sun. Feeling, like I was happy. Because life, is beautiful.

Fast forward, and I couldn't tell you what was on the radio. Still KRCL, but I'm unfocued, not really paying attention. I'm too concerned about finding another job, as i turn on the frontage road to get to my current job. The sun has set, and the clouds are moving in. I suppose its beautiful, i've seen it before. But I can't remember the experience. All I remember is the anxiety. The stress, the small little bit of panic, that maybe, I'm not going to make it. I reflect upon it now, and think, maybe I won't make it. Maybe if I break down, I'll be able to pick it all up again and fix whatever is wrong. But if I break down, what then? I don't like to think about it, but maybe I'd feel better.

Earlier in the day, after I woke up from the strange dream, a vision of a sunny neighborhood, then a dark room full of hooded figures, then a severed hand being dipped in wax, the many voices saying, all at once, "We are all the witnesses to justice" as the wax drips off the hand. I know it to be a hand of glory. Anyway, weird dreams aside, after waking up and a telephone conversation, I got ready for the day. Reflecting upon aspects of the call, I told myself, "Lately, I don't feel the need to run away."

Right now, I wonder if maybe I do need to get away. Run away. Simplify everyone's life. Or maybe just mine.

Maybe that is why I need any job for right now; save money, then run away. A means to an end.

I don't want to think these things, but maybe I need to face the painful feelings before I can get better.

Or maybe there is no getting better.

I hate feeling trapped. I'm pretty much fucked.

Love is a Fool's Pursuit

Very rarely does anyone actually mean to hurt someone.
Especially when it is someone they love, or someone they care about deeply.

But it happens. In the silliest of ways. And in the most painful of ways.

Not because the intent was to hurt.

It just happens.

The wrong words, at the wrong time, usually.
Best intentions, other times.
Lack of communication, as well.
Many causes, one result.

The cynic in me feels like I just can not win.
The optimist in me runs on hope with a jolt of "someday."

Then all the other voices argue, and agree:
Never someday, better off alone, because love fucks you up, right when you think you are ok being alone; like a hurricane, like a storm, someday you'll fall like rain, someday, it'll be ok. Someday, I'll be gone and I won't fucking care about it anymore. Someday i'll be a believer. When you stop looking, it'll find you, you'll find it.

Love is worth it...Really, trust me on this.

Depression

For me, It isn't sadness. It isn't waking up and wanting to cry.
It's waking up tired. It's waking up, too tired to cry.
It's waking up and thinking about the things you want, and only seeing how unreasonable and far those things are from you.
It's waking up with goals, but being too tired to follow them through.

Depression, sucks.
Depression isn't necessarily wanting to kill yourself.
It's being convinced that if you died, or just faded away, nothing would be really different.

And hope hurts, because you lack the strength to do much of anything.
So much effort, for the littlest things.

I'm not depressed like most people. I'm not depressed like some people. But I guess we all get depressed, in our own ways. And we have our ways of coping, or forgetting.

Not everyone self destructs in the same way.

Some people it's easy to help, because the problem is apparent. Snatch away the bottle, the needle, the porn, the objects of abuse. The people who they abuse. The things they blame. Forcing them to confront themselves, because they have no choice.

But it's different for me. I have no obvious problems. At least, nothing we have a cure for. When life is stacked against me, I am ground down just a little more.
Paranoia and distrust, do nothing to help me ask for help, not that it matters because I do not know how to be helped.
Because I look fine. I'm not addicted to anything. I'm not killing myself by inches with anything clinical professionals diagnose and rehabilitate frequently.

I can't explain, how hopeless I feel. How tired I feel. How, even the smallest bit of hope seems so far away, because I lack the strength to grasp it. When the things I want seem so far away, with the odds stacked against me.

That's what depression is for me. Or rather, just a slice.
Can't ask for help because you don't know how anyone else can help.
And everyone is just waiting for you to ask. That's painful.

I need time to sort things out.

Bulletproof

Bulletproof means I can't die.
Bulletproof means it will still hurt.
Bulletproof means another chance.
Bulletproof means someone has a bullet with my name on it someplace.
Bulletproof means if not today, tomorrow.
Bulletproof means I'm going to need a gun too.
Bulletproof means defense.
Bulletproof means expecting problems.

I'm Bulletproof. Usually.
I'm Bulletproof. When you aren't shooting.

I'm Bulletproof. When you can't.
I'm Bulletproof. When I smile.
I'm Bulletproof. Right now.
I'm Bulletproof. When I'm Pure.
I'm Bulletproof. Because I'm a Joker.


I'm Bulletproof, when I know I'm not.

The Animus Locus

Slab. perfectly square. raised from the sand.
Blink.
Darkness. Pale, blue illumination. Twilight of the hypercerptive mind.
Thought. Question. Next?

Animus Locus Muto:

Slab, perfectly square, raised from the sand, in front of my feet, upon the slab, upon the sand. Three.
Blink.
Thought: Question: Path?
Blink.

Animus Locus Muto.

Slabs. Perfectly square, raised from the sand, in front of my feet, as far as the eye can see.
Plenty of paths.
Plenty of choices
Plenty of time.

Blink.

Crystal Ice Cloud Queen

I first spotted her as I rode by in a car. It's sunday; the long thing she was wearing looked like a dress, her shoes kind of strange, and her hair blonde and messy.
"Look a church goer."

Ensuing debate of "bathrobe" and "walk of shame" 2pm on a Sunday.

Exit: Car. Enter: 7-11.
Engage staff, and candy.
Exit: 7-11. Enter: Car.

Examine: The Junkie.

Detail: Orange "clog" style shoes. "High fashion" long knit sweater. Robe style? Shorts, blue t-shirt.

Detail: Marks on her face. Marks on arms.
Possible indication: meth use. Sores resulting from exposure to caustic chemicals, as well as "meth mites."

Detail: on phone: Conversation snippet: "just so you know..."
Behavior: turning away from prying eyes.
Behavior: arms wrapped across self. Defensive, closed, frightened.
Behavior: constant movement. Turns back and moves to have back against wall.
End: Phone call. Hunching down, staring at phone.
Emotional response: tired, hopeless, lost, frightened.

She used to be pretty. She sold her beauty for a hit or twelve, for that little extra euphoria, that little extra bit of self esteem, that little bit extra high.
Victim, and abuser, going to hell in her own style. Forsaking the life, for the high. A nihilist addict; nothing matters, not even the next high, but if I can get the next high, I won't care that nothing matters. Not even the next high...

I understand escaping into madness, to escape hopelessness. I pretend I'm crazy, and pretend I'm just dysfunctional and fucked up and just limping along through life. "I'm broken, and I'll still make it," is more comfort than feeling hopeless; "I'm not sure I can make it."

Frightening to look at an addict, and see something of them in you. To see their route of escape in a little crystal, in a needle, in a pill. Escape from hopelessness? Or into it?

Incredible compassion to look at an addict, and understand some of their pain.

Thank something I don't do meth...

Best wishes to you. Good luck, and may your pain abate.

Things I Need to Remember

I have the power to change.
The very notion of perfection, is flawed.
Do what is good for yourself, and if that happens to be good for others, so be it.
Self Sacrifice is not necessary to be a good person.
Bad Things Happen To Good People.
It is okay to be weak until you find the strength again.
Do not try to change anyone. Support people in their decisions to change.

Addendum:
Worrying about what is next, will make now mean less.

To be continued? If I remember something else I need to remember, of course.

The Dust

The Dust
Will continue
To settle
Long after
The building
Stops shaking.

Travel Light Manifesto

Standing outside the station of the grey dog, the station the color of the namesake of the hound. I'm not focused on the greytop. The stars hold my attention.

I was standing under a single lamp with my single backpack and single suitcase, music devices playing one song on repeat, as the star that's beat me to the ground today sets in the west. I stood there until the sky simmered and cooled.

There is such stark beauty at these hours. Alone in a nowhere town, waiting for a bus that might not make it. Ignore the news TV in the lobby I dropped into. A suspicious night manager eying me, like I eye them; weary and tired. I smile, to break the stoney glare. On a lucky chance I guessed the name.

My new friend in my nowhere town. I check out of a hotel I never checked into, with parting words and a promise of another day, some day. And if I never make it back this way, well at least there was today. I step out the door, knowing I've possibly said goodbye forever, and hoping with a desperate fervor it isn't.

But now, on the edge of a somewhere town, waiting for a bus that might not come, if the hypobox is to be believed, at this hour, as the lazy breeze blows beer cans down the street, after all the dust settles and the candy wrappers leave sight, I lose myself in the stars. It is beautiful.

I look around with new eyes when the wind picks up again. A little more passionate about its street cleaning duties now it seems. The pale sunrise, in my nowhere town, on the edge of this somewhere kind of road. Another sad sound of beer cans rolling away. It's all so sad, and beautiful.

Where will I go next? No where. Sharpie on the glass, scratched and bold. no where.

From The Edge of A Familiar Place

I can't really say none of this isn't familiar. I know I am mostly out of my element. But in so many ways, I am in my element.

But my element of choice is mind, and I guard it like gold. Perhaps that is my problem. Locked down and guarded. So locked in my own mind, I don't experience.

Tonight, I was surrounded by beautiful girls, and was with the girl I love. What was my experience?

I experienced a California Burrito. It was pretty tasty. What was the conversation around me? Some was about food from places like Rancheritos. I can't say I remember fully.

I experienced a lovely moment with the girl I love, sitting on my lap and giving me butterfly kisses, rubbing her face on my beard, and talking in a Russian accent. 

But mostly, I experienced not knowing where to go. Not knowing what to say. Not knowing what to do. I played on my phone, to distract myself from my social anxiety (which was better than some alternatives I could have experienced, yet in so many ways, so much worse).

I did experience lovely things on the drive away. Daft Punk at night, cruising the roads in a car that is not my own, experiencing quiet lovely words, semi coherently spoken, but driven with love.

But I certainly didn't experience much tonight. I stayed in my head far too much. A lurking shadow as much as a person at the party. If I think about my experience, I can't say I was accepted. I feel like I was barely tollerated.

And this is why I don't go out much.

Guard up, defenses up, no real sense of anything. Thoughts in the way of experience.

Over-thinking: the action that kills poetry.

Odometer Numbers

Today, I rolled over 217712 miles in my car. I didn't drive all those miles personally, but every mile I've driven has been unique. Even if the miles retread the places I've already been, or the places I go constantly, each mile is special. Why is 217712 so special? Because it mirrors itself.
Humans tend to take special notice of huge round numbers? 1,000 miles, 2,000 miles, 10,000 miles, 100,000 miles. Or repeated numbers 111,111, 22,222.

What makes mile 217712 more special than 217711? Nothing at all. A strange combination of numbers I'd personally like to think means something. But the deities help me if it has any real power over my life. Mile 217711 will never be the same as mile 217712, and mile 217713 will never be like 217711 was. Each mile is absolutely unique. We think the round numbers are special. We think repeated numbers are special. In the end though, we can't get sentimental over every mile.

Today, I rolled over another special mile marker. It is absolutely unique and I can never go back. But the very nature of time, is never being able to go back. Nothing returns to how it was; it can't.

Never take anything back. Never regret. 

Music in the night.

In the lonely night, I hear a soul's outpouring. From the piano, I hear the highs and the lows. Uplifting sorrows and ambiguous resolutions punctuated by moments between notes. The occasional repetition of practice. Chaos in transition, to a singular truth repeated once more, to lift us higher, and once more with soul. And that is it. No more do I hear from this soul in the night.

Losing

I hate emotions, because they make me feel vulnerable. They make me feel weak. They kill my logic. They turn me into just a child...

and I'm lost, and scared. I'm afraid I'll lose everyone, and everything. Like a child, I think about running away from home...

When I come back to myself, I feel like I ran a thousand miles, all in the same room. I know I need to get out. Maybe the child has it right; run far far away, and start over again...

Stream Of Conscious 2013-04-05

Or very nearly. As close as it can be, as when how I run things through a filter, the words I deem appropriate or descriptive or honest next, right after the next last one before the first born last raised one. Two three four, cross the floor, and daisy runs a rainbow. Childhood mimes, distressed rhymes, and all the world is a giant blender.

I suppose at least. Depends on your perspective. Argue reality is standard irrespective of said "perspective" - yet people preach tolerance and practice hate. Raise money for peace and blow it all on war. Toxic wastelands accompany our addicts in uniform. A dirty dealer junkie providing the fix to the washed brushed polished shitstained suburban executive, who claims you are to blame for his manipulations.

Narcissistic solider boy wanna-be; the sort of marine who would be shot in the back the second the battle sets it. A boy born to be hung, a late term abortion via NATO standard cartridges. He may die so others may live. Accidents happen is what they'll say. Shallow depth of investigation, a burial too honorable for a dishonorable child.

A last pile of dirt marks the end of the road. Dead end, end dead. A pretty reflection in a filthy pond ditch. upside down and reflected; end dead.

Run run run round the clock, to the future, bring back things too soon, and being ahead of your time only pays well if you know the schedule everyone else runs on. iPhone Die phone lie phone try phone, Styrofoam, memory foam, soap foam, long roam in Rome Rome. Sell the fame, cellophane, wrapped in a cellphone. Cellulose treatment, tree-kept encampment, road rage ensnapment. La-di-da, fa-la-la.

Mislain Affections

I'm lost. I know I'm lost. Worst yet, I've been lost so long, I'm not sure I want to be found.

My heart cries; isolation

I clamp down hard. I tell myself it is biology; the basic animal in me that makes me feel this way. I tell myself, I've evolved beyond this. I don't need a physical relationship with anyone.

Yet, I know I'm lying to myself. It is becoming a physical pain. My heart beats hard, and I feel it echo like an empty hall; a building kept around because it has historic value, but no more does it serve it's original purpose. Gone are the glory days, when it flourished, and gloried in it's own way. All gone, now, an empty shell. Forgotten, and ignored, for all I know.

I hang by a single hope, that I've tied a knot in, and have sustained for moments too long to really remember but short enough I think I can hold on a little longer.

But I'm running out of hope.

I see ways out, but I know, those ways, will probably lead to a hangman's rope. So for now, I cling a little longer, sway in the directionless breeze, and pray someone finds me, who doesn't have a price tag over their shoulder. 

The Girl With The Blood Red Lips

I see her in my dreams. Her subtle seductive smile, from those hypnotic haunting lips.

She stands across the crowded room, in a cafe I recognize,
unable to recall its name, or where it is, or its reality.
She catches me looking, and all thoughts crash to a halt.

I want to run. Away? To Her? Around Her?
She takes a step towards me, her purpose clear,
The face I used to call my own, betrays a smile.

Moments pass, and she is right next to me.
I can smell the sweet perfume, stirred with the subtle tang of her.
Intoxicating; but pales in comparison, to her Blood Red Lips.

I, have not moved at all. I have yet to say a thing.
She breaks the silence, with a whisper, in my ear,

"All the times you've come in here, I always watched you."
"When you left last time, you had an artist girl on your arm,"
"Since then, you, or at least she, has moved on."

A deep breath, another obsessed moment in my mind.

"Tell me your name, and we'll repair to someplace more private."
"Tell me your dreams, and we will share deeper affinity."

Just as I am about to speak, it starts to fade.
 Her soft disappointed sigh,
"Perhaps we will meet in the waking world."
"Until then, remember what you feel in your heart."

A kiss, then her vivid lips, and her subtle smile,
When all else is faint, and dim, I vow to never forget,
The Girl With The Blood Red Lips.

The Doomed and The Damned

You tried to burn the photograph I saw.

I will never forget what I saw, as the flames, consume, that picture.

Got the perfect alibi, and you've got the evidence to back it up.

I know where to dig, and I know if I did, I'd be no happier for it.

Stop. Step Back. Click.

I see another side of your story.

And this side brings to focus more truth than anyone is comfortable admitting.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Slip into another deception, I know you can't hide.

I like to think I used to know you. But that feels like another life now.

Skree.

I see myself in your own conflict. I am you, and you are him. Not enough love to fix what needs fixing.

Indeed, who now is the bigger fool?

Tock. Talk. Tock.

I will never be the same. And I think I am doomed.

But you will never be the same. And I think you are damned.

Why do I think these things? Because I do not trust easily.

Because I'm waiting for the other bomb to drop.

I hate to expect you to loose out to your ill-logic, and sick-mess.

But I can support you for only so long.

Loss of support?

The faster I fall.

Slow-Break II

I'm losing hope. Just when I think I come to terms with my loneliness and isolation, it finds a new spin on old feelings to make them bite harder.

I'm so, tired. I say that too much. In my own head if no where else. I don't want to feel this pain anymore. I'm sick to death of this pain.

Can't admit suicidal thoughts though, that would be losing. And I hate losing. As long as I hate losing more than I hate this pain, I should be safe enough.

It's the slow death that is driving me mad. No one knows when, no one knows where, no one knows why, but it's certainty can be a comfort. Other times, madness. Nothing to say, no one to talk to. Everyone's all gone off to bed. And tomorrow, I'll probably feel better, and if anyone mentions it, chances are, I'll say, "oh that. I was venting."

But am I really just venting? Partly. Do these things bother me a lot? Are they bothering me right now? Fuck yes. Will they bother me tomorrow? Probably. Will I want to talk about it tomorrow? Who knows...

Usually I'm so good at hiding my feelings, at hiding things that bother me. Too good, perhaps. No one knows the danger signs, or if they do, they don't know what to say. Or maybe they are too close, or far away.

I know I push people away, and I don't mean to. "My problems are my problems," I think to myself. No one knows what I know so obviously everyone else can't decide like I can.

But of course, that doesn't help either. Nothing I seem to do helps much. I rant to one friend or another, but two days later, I'm feeling like garbage again.

And when I push people away, maybe they ignore me...

I hate being ignored. And I hate the thought of people thinking I'm ignoring them. It breaks my fucking heart....

Fuck, I'm almost in tears over this. They are in my eyes, but they aren't collecting enough to drop out.

I'm so tired, but sleep won't help...I want things to work out in my favor, just once. I want something that can never be taken away from me.

Maybe I already have it...but so often there is little comfort to be found in ones self...

I should sleep. I should relax. I should let it all float away, and I should know that tomorrow will be better...

But those are just idea's, that don't help with right now. I just want the pain to stop...Best I can do right now, is distract myself long enough until something important comes a long and requires my attention for a while.Until I feel "okay" enough to mean "I'm okay" when I say it.

Yeah, I kind of am a wreck.

Slow-Break

My heart has been slowly breaking for the past week or so. And none of the people involved know anything about it.

My heart breaking again over memories long past.

My heart breaking over crossed signals.

My heart breaking, twice, in slow motion.

Superficial Repairs

I hope you realize how damaged I really am.

I might keep up the facade of being strong, but underneath, I'm cracked and bleeding slowly. I'm screwed up. I'm battered, and I'm not really all that okay.

Sometimes it shines through. An action will give me away, a lingering look, or maybe the look of concentration I focus on.

I'm sorry I have trust issues. I'm sorry I'm suspicious and paranoid.

I hate the patterns I'm painting. They aren't making me happy. They aren't making anyone happy. I need to set down the brush. Maybe just stop it all for a moment and appreciate the good things more than worry about possible bad. Stop worrying about my possible mistakes and misinterpretations. Soothe the fear, calm the sadness, and give myself a chance to be happy with simple observations.

I'm damaged. I know it looks like I have the ability to stand strong, defiant, full of strength when all else is failing, when all else is going to hell. But that is action. And action is easy. Action is the only thing I know how to do right. Thinking about the future just isn't my strong suite at all. I can think of things I want easily enough, but thinking of how to get them accomplished? That's something I'm honestly too afraid to think about most of the time.

I can be strong sometimes, and probably I've tried to be strong far too long. I just hope you realize, I'm just human.

I'll probably be okay some day, but first I'm going to need to be honest before I can honestly say "I'm okay."

Robot Reboot

I know I shouldn't want to be a robot. But I can't help it sometimes.
Not feeling anything sometimes feels like a better option...

When you can do nothing about the situation, and the next step is in someone's hands, when they fight tooth and nail to avoid any resolution, or decision, and decide to wait it out till it sorts itself out. Sometimes the madness of the void feels better than the dizzying dance of the tilt-o-whirl.

But even though I can't see the spinning, I still feel the spinning sickness, creeping from my heart, even though I choose not to feel the thrills and twists, I can't honestly say I feel better. I can't say I'm happy now, but I feel "bet-ter."
Bet-ter, because I no longer have the clutter of emotions distracting me.
But when I have no distraction, bad to mad. Back to Bad.

So really I'm no better off either way. But the ability to fake it through a day, sometimes has to take precedence over the easy breakdown.

But I don't want to devalue or dismiss everything. But, it is one day at time at this point. One day at a time; it's all I have energy fore. One day at a time; it's all I've got money for. One day at a time; it's all I can manage right now.

Art is my forward motion. As uninspired as I feel, I've got to try, otherwise I will completely stagnate.