The well

Volatile

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Could it be, I wonder… Could it be that my only fear is to deceive? To not meet the expectations. To let down. To hurt. To not be liked… Loved.

Could it be that in all the decisions I make, too many things hinder my judgement, such as the fear. There is an order, a logic, a sense of responsibility that I'm not sure I can grasp anymore.

Shifted, all the bases I used to plant my feet and claim. Futile, all the reasons invoked to justify.

 

"If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character…Would you slow down? Or speed up?"
-Proof (from Haunted)/ Chuck Palahnuik

 

On finding solid ground, I have nothing to say. If only it would stop shaking… The one I'm standing on would do just fine.

 

My possible pasts

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They flutter behind you your possible pasts
some bright-eyed and crazy some frightened and lost

 

Had I not erased a year in words, I'd be living in one possible past where I'd die. Of pain. Of being tired of being lost. Of being nothing but a memory, or a ghost, or a spirit. Awakened once in a while by some mystical incantation, to be used and then discarded. Put back in its vaporous box up in the attic of some stranger's good conscience.

I don't want to forget the possibilities ever. Not where I was headed, not where I wanted to be or go. Not the words, not the carvings on my skin, so tired and hurt already. And every time history will want to rewrite itself, I'll stick a finger in one of my freshest, deepest wounds.

Do you remember me, how we used to be? Do you think we should be closer?

Everything has a purpose. I've said this many times, meaning every word deeply. Every bad move, every mistake. To escape a possible past that I wouldn't want to live with. But ended up carrying on my back anyway, because it had a purpose. 

But as my shoulders straighten, as my eyes open, as I make my way towards a path I haven't walked yet, the load gets lighter, the purpose finally guiding my steps. Next one will be different. Not better nor worse. A possible past, a purpose.

 

 

La monnaie du soleil

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Un moteur gris dans le brouillard
Me pousse au fond de nulle part entre les anges dans le soir

 

Enfin, pas tout à fait nulle part. C'est au fond que je suis arrivée. Je l'ai touché, goûté même. Est-ce que j'ai essayé de sortir tout de suite? Non. Parce que je voulais sentir mes pieds pris dans  la boue. Le froid, le mouillé entre mes orteils. J'ai ouvert mes bras, tendu les mains et passé mes doigts sur les paroies de mon puits. Humides, gluantes. Gratté avec mes ongles, pour m'assurer qu'ils seraient sales. Une trace.

Parce que j'en sors. Oh oui. C'est sec par endroit. C'est là que je met les pieds, en attendant que ça sèche plus haut. J'ai des fois le bruit de ma respiration dans les oreilles, et je me demande si c'est vraiment la mienne, si je respire encore, si c'est pas l'écho de la chute. Le fond descent, je monte, et pourtant je ne vois rien, ne sens rien, ne pense plus. Monter, monter, monter, c'est tout ce que je peux faire.

La sortie, le haut, tout en haut, c'est comme un aimant. Comme l'était le fond. Mais je sais, je sais, que c'est une illusion. Que l'attraction ne dépend pas de l'aimant. Ce n'est pas en haut ou en bas qu'il faut chercher. Chacun leur tour ils m'attireront. Et j'aimerai chaque moment passé en leur présence, tout en me disant que je dois partir, que je dois monter… ou descendre.

Entre les deux. Perchée, perdue, suspendue dans le vide du centre, du milieu. Ce n'est jamais un non-retour. Le fond est mou, maléable. On peut toujours creuser. Le haut est infini, ouvert sur le ciel toujours clair, toujours bleu. Et même quand il est gris il est beau. Il m'appelle pour le moment. Alors je monte, oui, c'est vrai, je monte. Sans bagage. J'ai tout laissé en bas. Je serai de retour bien assez vite.

That simple

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Mundane certainly. So fucking ordinary it would tank at the box office, that stupid story. That thing. That big wad of gum stuck under my shoe. But in a linear situation, where facts cannot be more usual, lies complexities, astounding.

 

 

Simplicity in words. When it just makes more sense to go for it than to weave and dance and

Leaving traces. I'm leaving traces but letting the path fading. I will not use it again.

I've weaved, I've danced. Justified and avoided. Until no more options were available. I bought all the extras, found all the easter eggs, played in God mode.

An end that dragged through my words, an end that survived this long because of them.

Pictures, drawings, songs… An idea, a life within a folder, a thousand paper weights on it. All for the sake of this one story.

It lived and now has died and within an instant it will be for ever erased. Within an instant I will destroy all the intricacies I've carefully laid on it. My bonds. My weights.

Life. Death. Creation. Destruction. Truth. Lies. Realities. Dreams. Nothing in between.

As I said. Simplicity. 

Yes, a cliché made it’s way

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Sometimes something happens… A turning point, as lame as it sounds. A turning point… A decisions made, or a word said, or a touch intended for yourself that ends up reaching further than expected.

I'd like to thank the Academy…

And sometimes you wear a smile that says pain is killing me inside.  Or a pained expression that says I really don't give a fuck. Either way, someone ends up seeing through, and what do you do?

With a gun barrel between your teeth, you speak only in vowels.

Whisper too. Yesssss, noooooo. That's as much as I'm willing to say, considering my mouth is filled. My throat closing. Gag on spit and shouts that will not make it past my tongue.

I couldn't cry, so once again I couldn't sleep.

Ah, but the past tense is effective. My eyes are heavy… My cheeks no longer dry. Sleep has found me, at last. Being awake is only half the fun.

 

 

Pulling out

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What's funnier? Steve Martin pretending to care on SNL or Johnny Knoxville shopping a taxidermist for his grand mother? Exactly. Watched Amadeus today, with the volume way up. What happend to Tom Hulce anyway? Right now Kenny Rogers is urging me to buy the Superstars of Country Collection, for the pleasure of listening to Ray Price, Conway Twitty and Merle Haggard again and again. All digitally remastered. I could switch. There's 8 Mile on MMM.

Or I might pick up a book. Haven't read much lately, but bought books like crazy. I'm about 10 books late. A mix of noir, sci-fi, auteurs québecois and poetry. And that's not counting the comics. I am of an addictive nature. It used to be dope. Then paperbacks. Then TV. Then something else. And now I'm trying to wean myself again. But TV won't do it. Nor trash novels. Drugs are out of the question. Now I really get what cold turkey means.

I posted the Dylan song because it says so much about appreciation, acceptance of the inevitable or unavoidable. About not having regrets but embracing the past and caring for your memories. I have a choice. My past is mine. I can decide what it means to me and how I look at it in the rearview mirror. Reajusted it. Like when you let someone borrow your car and everything is out of place, out of position. Reajusted. Perfect view. Clear. My hand is on the stick. My eyes look down.  The needle moves up. Stops on D.

Fear… less than. More though. An equation for sure.

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I said I suck at maths and it's true. So for me, one plus one, that doesn't always equal 2. Eventually yes. With time, understanding the mechanics that led me to the wrong answer, yes, it can make 2.

One. And one. If the ones are the same, then two is a big fat pile of whatever one is. I thought my main equation included shit. Turns out it was fear. At this point. Right now. 

Yes it's all about focus. Yes it is the test. (don't you hate always being right?) Focus on the smallest of actions. That is fearsome. Focus on the big picture is the easiest thing. The shit happened when I overlooked the moment. The shit that I always put in the equation was in fact the result of it. Fear and fear. Add them up. See what happens.

Gut wrenching fear, a moment when I thought I was actually going to loose my mind. My mind. Not in the metaphorical sense. Real. Faced with the small actions I didn't focus on, because the big picture was much more important. I thought.

Gut wrenching fear. Of looking at myself. And understanding. I wasn't overthinking. I was drowning the noise of my actions in the very comfortable bed of words that is my blog. I have made a trip to earth. And discovered I hadn't lived there in a while. Writing. Like drinking, downing pills, smoking. Just battling the noise.

Gut wrenching fear. That in all my selfconsciousness, my search for peace of mind, my clever thoughts, my claims to being a loner, I forgot about being human. I am paying the price right now.

I might never be the same again. I might remain the same forever. I know that I will have, for once, at last, finally understood what this means. The moment. The focus.

And I might also forget this feeling I have right now. Or I might pretend that I don't care too much. So before it all goes away, before I choke on my words, I want to say this:

I love you.

Every single one of you. I mean it and say it without fear. 

 

I think…

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I might make it. Soon.

Thank you for your comments. 

They gave, give me strenght. 

This space here, in a year has brought me to face many emotions. Many events.

But the real thing, life, is the most powerful and painful miror of them all. 

Silent, silent storm

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Life has sucked me in. It has no intention of spitting me out right now. I'm lost, very lost, in the deepest hole I've ever been in.

I might stay silent for another day, or a week, I don't know.

Everything I have, I am giving this hole, in hopes to fill it.

It might work. I hope so.

Thank you for being here, always. 

Floor plan

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The edges are blurred and I wonder, no, I ponder. I still have questions, too many with answers stapled to their backs.

I have many things going for me. I have many things I keep close to my heart that surely one day will destroy me.

Beyond the scratch at the roof of my mouth that I can't stop tonguing. Maintaining the scratch.

I've seen myself at the very end of this moment, on the verge of making that final step, one too many times. I know I will not make it. Not that step.

I was in town on Friday. Walked to the bar. Stayed outside, had a smoke, made a call, chatted with the friendly bartender who was having a cigarette. Did not go in.

He says "Come in, come in!" I say "Nah, I don't like walking in alone. In fact I don't like", "walking in at all" he finishes my sentence. And I say yeah…

Looked at my shoes. Looked around. Kissed goodbye. Can't walk in at all. Some places I shouldn't have gone in. Some places I deny myself access to.

But I have it backwards I know. The places where I am lost in are the ones I ate the keys for. The ones I won't go in are exactly where I need to be.

My mouth is bleeding and I swallow, thinking that's all I'm good for. If I get sick, I will get sick of me. Because that's all I do. Make sure no one but myself is to blame. 

I erase myself from your lives, your eyes, your thoughts. I want to be invisible, so that the only responsability I will bear will be of never having been true. To myself.

I write and I think and I understand. But still chose to fucking poke the scratch again and again and again. I'm beyond pain. My tolerance has reached incredible heights. I don't even know what's real anymore.

The only emotion I hear from my words is the sound of the keyboard, my nails sliding off the keys once in a while and hitting backspace. I have no more to say tonight. I need.

So it is said. I need.