How else can I describe this without being redundant? My stomach is tied in knots, spilling out through the holes in my humanity, leaving an empty pit at my center of gravity. The room isn’t spinning, but nothing is stationary. It’s all subtle shifts; light reflecting off curved surfaces, my white wallpaper peeled back to reveal another shade of egg shell, and the soft humming from my dryer that’s slowing driving me insane…
Whenever I’m alone, the darkness starts to set in, and I devolve into a mass of guilt and cruelty. I recognize my own sins for what they are; conscience decisions made in the face of a two-faced God. All of the good I’ve accomplished in this world is credited to my creator, while any evil committed in his name is still paid for with my blood? I am forced to bear the burden of being a creature who commits ill deeds by his own selfish desires, but my God, the center of the Universe, the benevolent God who created all, he takes none of the blame. I never asked for these feelings. I never asked to be brought into this world. I never wanted to have the choice, the human choice, to do wrong. Why would my God create an existence from such pliable clay? Leave me in the sun, and I melt away, or leave me in the cold, and watch my exterior crinkle and crack, until I’m a pile of hatred and regret. A good worker does not blame his tools, yes? So God cannot blame that clay. God cannot blame the stars he scattered, nor the Angels he banished. God cannot blame time, for he is timeless. He cannot blame the unknown, for he is all knowing. God cannot blame a single soul, for every inch of every soul was forged in his image, by his hands, and his hands alone. God cannot blame who I am on his failures, because he cannot fail. So I’m left taking on that weight; Mount Olympus on my back, the Garden of Eve the chip on my shoulder, and the words of a God who demands I accept him before he would ever accept me. Tell me, does a father need to have his son ask for help to receive it? Does a father not bear the responsibility, to look after and teach, to lead his children down a path of kindness? Is that not the role of a parent?
I was born with sin in my heart, because God told me so. I can only be forgiven through his blood, because he told me so. I must find God, and give my life to God, in order to be saved. That does not sound like a loving father. That sounds exactly like a prideful, arrogant, petty child. Those are the demands of a spoiled brat, the decision of someone with self imbued omnipotence.
God created me, and I am a mass of spineless sins, choking on the despair born in the very first thought of my existence. I am blamed for all that is wrong, while it is demanded I return all acts of good back into the hands of my creator. O what a truly merciful God! What a completely outstanding example of fatherly love! What a marvelous, magical, monstrous saviour, our so called merciful Lord!
In the end, I cannot rely on God to fix me, because he has nothing to do with me. I must reforge myself from the scarps of my soul I’ve scattered across the skies and the seas, until I have saved enough of me to walk towards a heaven where I can truly be free.
But I love him…That was always my excuse at the end of every day that summer. Those nights spent awake wishing to be anything but real, the face of a harsh reality was revealed, and every special moment broken.
You felt special because he was yours? People are not possessions. When you do that, you are giving the key to your happiness to somebody else. So what happens when they no longer see you as the sun or moon or stars, but as waste and dust and not even an afterthought?
And it’s not beautiful, nor poetic. It’s ugly crying alone at 4am, it’s unwashed clothes and sheets and fast food wrappers overflowing from the trash can. It’s cold feet, empty eyes, bubbling guts and bloody vomit. It’s crying to the point where nothing comes out; no tears or sounds, you just can’t exist..And it leaves you missing days from the calendar and regretting everything prior to the here and now, and the here and now is something you want to destroy, and you realize that you are the moment, that you are the here and now, and you need no more tomorrow’s, no more chances, that time is a stupid harlot, a cheating whore, and you want her out of your life..You don’t want life..
That’s the kind of breaking that happens.
It’s not beautiful.
We live because no matter how much pain we may feel, we feel so much more. What is joy, happiness, that falling while reading a lover’s last note, that warmth from a friends smile after a night spent on failures, that fleeting sense of control that makes you feel at home and holds you back from everything you’ve ever had or ever will have? That doesn’t mean we have to know pain to understand joy. As the saying goes, the taste of broccoli in no way affects the deliciousness of chocolate. But then again, some people are allergic to chocolate, so maybe there is such a thing as karma in this spinning mess of a galaxy? Utter nonsense! And that’s the real beauty! You are thinking to much, friend! You aren’t feeling enough, yet you’re feeling to much; crying over spilled milk even though you’re lactose intolerant and don’t even know why you had the milk in the first place! You are an enigma, a completely unique snowflake that has no equal in space or time, yet a mirror copy of the million, billion, trillion hearts that have traced this land before you! You are what you were always meant to be, and that has to count for something, right?! You have meaning, and that meaning is not assigned by any man, woman, lover or foe, God or Devil, but because you are just you! You ARE YOU! Nothing like you has breathed this air, felt this rain, cried these tears, caught that fly ball, broke that pinky finger, burnt that dutch apple pie, dirtied that hat that means the world to you, fought with the mother who loves you in a way you can never appreciate, held onto that hand even when it stopped holding back, found a home in a hole that was never that bad to begin with; nothing like you has been or ever will be again. You are a moment. Moments are what make memories. Memories are those things you alter in that wacky head of yours depending on the time of day, weather outside and amount of poison in your blood, both in the literal sense of alcohol and the VERY literal sense of doubt. Those memories build up, fall apart completely, come together like a puzzle and destroy the world as you know it. Memories are the past, but do you see? The past can’t be changed you say? Then how are you able to bend it so easily? If that past, truly set in stone, crumbles and glues together like rice crispies and hot marshmallows, then why do people EVER think that destiny, fate, the future is written out in some kind of marker that cannot be altered? You are magic. You bend time in your head, create worlds just by opening your eyes, breath a universe through your nose, touch the face of infinity with those hands you think are too calloused and small and cut to shreds to ever have another human hold. Breathe kid! Sing like sound isn’t shit, cry like tears are diamonds and like diamonds are nothing but shiny stones to give to pretty girls and boys who need something bright in a moment, to change a memory, to change that fate, to beat up destiny, to light up the magic in their eyes so it can reflect in yours and then you see, finally! Cheer up buttercup! God him(her!)self watches your every move in jealousy! You are life! Even in death, you are life! You ARE YOU! YOU ARE THE MOMENT! YOU ARE THE UNIVERSE! So even if it’s overplayed, cliche, the dumbest fucking thing you’ve ever heard, complete bullshit formed from meaningless words on stupidly white pages in a broken-spine notebook, you are the universe. Free to feel the deepest sadness, the sweetest happiness, the simple pains of simple letdowns and the simple joys of the perfect rainy March day. Breathe the universe.
My body lies still in sleep, unlike my insecure soul. My dreams carry weight; they are the leaves after the autumn downpour, so common nobody stops to stare, but to each tree it feels like a lead weight just shifted onto the branches, making each leaf cry out in turn:
“It’s now the time for my colors to bleed,
Coerced into the season of letting go.
Embrace this slumber that takes us together
Into this living death we welcome as home.”
I’m not soaking in the sun anymore; the light dissipates faster and faster and comes later and later, and my back feels a little bit heavier with each passing night left hoping for the sun and living with the knowledge that it’s going to take longer today to see it than the day before. My time feels insanely short, like it’s skipping the even numbers on the clock, like the “tick” is not followed by the customary “tock”, and so somebody must be stealing my time.
~Or maybe you’re just done stalling…~
Disconnect; that’s the issue, so he can’t feel okay because he can’t connect the thought of “okay” with the corresponding emoticon on his smartphones obtusely glaring screen. The mask that he wears remains a deceitful facade; He is neither a hero nor villain, his dreams not so grandiose as to require such lofty titles. He is simply a loser who lost his own face in the crowd, so now even as he searches for some hint of recognition, every mirror becomes a window into a stranger’s world.
~Because seeing the pain from an outside perspective lets him pretend that pain isn’t his own…~
This porch is tiny, only enough room for 2 folding chairs and a small end table. I know that only from judging the porches of my fellow apartment goers; mine is empty, and will remain so. I spend some time out there, especially while it’s raining. It’s covered, so I can be outside and remain dry, able to reach out my arm and feel the downpour if I so choose. Some drops fall on my wooden railing and make a small splash, and if the temperature is just right, those drops burst into a small spray and they catch the wind and float as a sort of mist that touches my face. It’s really a nice feeling, this late evening rain. The flashes of lightning illuminate the sky for seconds at a time, showing the rolling shades of grays, and the thunder that follows is low and deep and reminds me of laying my head on someone else’s chest and feeling their heart beating.
I want to live in a place where my heart feels…weightless. I want to know the type of hug that feels warm, like summer air against your skin. I want to find myself lost in thoughts of fireworks and pancake breakfasts, snowball fights in January and chocolate filled Halloweens. I want to look forward to what I can be, what I can achieve. I have the type of heart that feels as if it is made of lead; to heavy to carry with me, and so I often find myself leaning on others for things I should only support on my own 2 feet. Basically, I feel a need to wish I was just like everyone else, to smile just because, to laugh without trying to hide something, without having to cry about it later. Do people walking down the halls of malls, the streets to different bars, parks and stores, do these people ever stop to wonder “why does every step I take feel as if I’m falling?
~A place where I reach for the hands of others instead of for the knife sitting on the table…
The scars are cat scratches and work mistakes, rough basketball and rugged runs through trails at dusk. The scars are warnings, screams of “stay away!” “I’m not worth knowing!” “I can’t be saved…”
If people were to have to face this, the reality that I’ve created in my own mind, I’d like to think they could appreciate my self-hatred a little more.