The well

A lesson

Posted on

Something. Something in the history that we wanted to write.

That will never make it in the books.

Jumping was the easy part. But climbing out became our daily gamble.

What was there to lose but frowns upon our good life?

Sill, stalled on the lips of the well, sitting and waiting and thinking about not thinking.

Faltering, bending, giving in. Going back and back to the start line.

One too many times. 

This is the last time. This is the last time.

Who fell… Who's out dancing with the world, crying to be dead?

Who's alive… Who's trapped in the silence of too much certainty?

It's not our souls that are lost. The words showed them the way.

Long before we stopped understanding them. 

 

Ramblings

Posted on

I just don't see the point of doing anything. Whatever I do, I seem to be taking the wrong steps. I feel like I'm the end of my rope right now. Again.

I'm mostly pissed off about what I write. I'm whinny. I'm negative. I'm lonely. I'm nothing. Fuck. (yeah, that sounds like a great idea)

As I have written not long ago, I can't seem to dig, to understand, to grasp my shit. Zen Master, you are helping of course… I think I just need to stop, breath, and jump. Just do something for christ's sake. If I can't see straight it's because I've dug deep enough. And no amount of procrastination will replace action. Every day something happens that tells me I should. I somehow chose to ignore all the signs and stagnate. Smell my own stink. And enjoy it.

On a lighter note, I'm going back to the gym starting tomorrow. I was fairly active all summer, but not enough to wake up my muscles. I have gained only 3 pounds since January, I'm proud of that. I just need a little tightening.

Baggage claim

Posted on

-You're doing it again?

-Yes, but on my own terms this time.

 

What does "on my own terms" mean when I don't have a fucking clue what it is I'm looking for? How to get it? How to use it?

I go for the dark, the complicated and of course the unattainable. Because there is comfort in the security of assured failure. Uncertain succes does not apply to 'my own terms'.

I go for the dark, the complicated and of course the unattainable. Because isn't this what I know best? Doesn't it leave me without obligations, consequences, responsability?

Will I ever believe it? If I tell myself often enough, will I ever accept this as truth?

That everything that I am right now I want to embrace. That my arms aren't wide enough to take me all in. I do not want to reject anything that I am anymore. But I can't handle it yet.

Some things about ourselves we will always loath, always despise. And no matter how hard we work on them, they just won't go away.

These things I want to learn to accept. I want to love.

On my own terms. 

11pm

Posted on

A 90 minutes walk, a note book.

It was really humid and the thick pages were soft and yielding. Blue ink on purple matrix.

It looked black on gray under the lamp post.

The mandatory mist around its light making me remember nothing. Only to check on my podometer once in a while. And to draw a line after each gust of words.

The occasional glance, a jogger with a dog, a teenaged couple smiling silently, digging their moment. 

I can't break out a sweat. Six pages already filled. Each street corner has held my shadow for a few minutes.

African masks, green or eggplant walls displaying them to the parked car across the street. I want to ring the bell and tell them they're out of style. 

Over four thousand steps and I reach brand new asphalt. The lighting sucks, but wow look at the gorgeous park, the valley, the birch trees, Bob Dylan, another page is consumed.

I wasn't born to lose you he says, and I write I think who is, really? It's all in the want. The light is red, but what the hell. It's a four lane and a quick jog.

While I surrender four bucks for taurine, guarana and caffeine she looks at the pad with a star on it and a pen stuck in the spiral binding like it's a foreign object.

It's an S leading to my home. Spots on aluminum siding and fake waterfalls and the end of my mp3 rotation. I'm done.

Empty, the next page awaits.

Past in fall

Posted on

A silence I bred through smiles and being there was never enough.

An empty inbox as my soul ready to burst from need not real.

There was nothing, I was nothing, until and then and now.

A start line as elusive as a wolf's smile.

A finish as definite as the last drop of cum drying on the edge of my mouth.

Time passes, time dies, and so does desire for shiny new skin.

To possess, to own, to take, to taste for the first time.

When the leaves changed colors it was old and it was new.

When snow fell over the warmth of our bed it was too late for a song.

Music could do nothing to change the mood.

I have drowned only to be safe, to be quiet.

I have drowned only to finally breath the air I was denied.

But it's cold, and it's dangerous, and it's slippery down here.

And without a moment's notice I might fall back.

I might look back and wish for the wave to take me again.

Anything.

Anything for the sound or the colors or the breeze.

 

Blind slumber

Posted on

Going through the motions. Every day looking like its predecessor. It's highly possible that the next will join the ranks. And as I drag my lazy ass from today to tomorrow, I am amazed at how easy it is to do, say or feel absolutely nothing. To not think. And the deeper I fall into this state, the worst I feel. On one hand I tell myself, it's ok, take break, just drop everything and float. Follow the line. On the other, I feel guilty, lazy and small. For falling asleep again.

The I-shoulds that I used to turn into I-dids are now becoming fuck-its. Any attempt to focus is killed by shut-ups and don't-think-about-its. The wind has died. The drive is gone. But it was all fabricated. Rested on artifice. Conditions. Compromises. Another kind of sleep.

I am confronted once again with a stranger. Two people lived side by side, one watching the other die. The dead is haunting me. The living is hiding in shame. Will I go for the trinity? As the third player is poking her head out, I'm starting to feel jilted by my own mind. 

I should go on a trip, far away. Let them fight it over. I was about to write, I'm so tired. Then I realized, what the fuck am I a tried of? I do nothing. I let everything slip, slide, go. I don't try to grasp. I don't try to hold. Tired of what? I'm actually afraid, that's what I think. Afraid of seeing my mind go. Of never being able to recover what I started. The beautiful that I bred. The wonderful that was showing signs of blooming.

Afraid that I am not worth all this. That I'm being selfish for trying to be a better me. All this time spent in my mind, to clean it up, to understand it better, is surely too egocentric. I don't deserve that amount of time and effort. I can get by on sitcoms and crappy softcovers. 

It's just too easy like this. And too hard for the rest. But there is always a catch for taking the easy way out. And I can see it. So I need to stay awake. Eyes opened. No caffeine this time, no Rockstar, no Monster. No fake help. Poke me once in a while will ya?

Stream of acceptance

Posted on

Deaf dumb and thirty
Starting to deserve this
Leaning on my conscience wall

-Bush (click to hear)

 

A face stamped on the very first riff.

Gone, gone, should be fucking gone by now.

Yet I still find myself on my hands and knees howling.

Yet I still look back for a glimpse of reality.

All this to remember I was still a woman.

All this shit to remember what it means to give.

Nothing in return. Just an empty shell. Again.

How many times will I give thinking I will receive?

How can the idea of being posessed be so seductive? 

Does swimming against the stream sound too ordinary?

Do images stay that long?

Starting to deserve this indeed. 

One year has gone since my birth. And suicide.

Fall will be hard the breath.

Because I have disconnected my life support.

The smells will remind me.

The sounds will remind me.

The cold air will remind me.

That I was dead before. That I have died again.

I want to deserve myself.

I want to be worthy of me. 

I. Will. Not. Go. Back.

To no one, to nothing.

I am my own gift.

So get the fuck out of my way.

My angels, my devils

Posted on

Fucked. In trouble. Under pressure. Tired. Disturbed. Lost. Used. Starved.

However, I realize that these states are mostly self inflicted. I haven't eaten since noon today. I went to bed at 3am last night, even though I have to get up at 6.45 every morning. I wait till the last minute to take care of things. I dance on the edge of irresponsibility. 

I walk up to my thoughts and confront them every day. I'm not afraid. Only, am I overthinking? Question everything, bla bla bla. What good is it, what does it bring me other than doubt? Other than the constant fucking nagging of my better judgement? I choose to get eaten. I choose to ignore. I choose to jump. But not without thinking. And that is what makes it harder to accept.

Granted, some things I decided to be blind about. But most of my bad decisions and bouts of self hatred I welcome, I expect, I will. Consciously. Why do I choose to hurt myself? I cannot believe that 35 years have gone, and I still have so little respect for myself. So little love. 

But.

All that thinking also brings out good stuff. I'm feeling better today than I have in months. It started a little while ago, and every step I make, I know I'm moving ahead.

Allowing myself pleasure in moments. Letting go of very heavy baggage. Expressing my thoughts out loud. Being. Like I've always wanted to be, whole, together. I'm not even half way there. But the mileage is permanent.

Making a conscious effort to live by what I think about. Not believe, not my convictions. I don't think I have any, or so little. Whether it's socially acceptable or not. What does that mean anyway? What one deems acceptable might be objectionable to another.

Out of 50 bad moves, I made 5 good ones today. Aiming for 6 tomorrow. And still manage to have a little fun while being bad.

Black, Swan

Posted on

  

Click… 

 

All around, in a pool of bones, whispers of tired skin.

I fold. I bend. I slip under everything.

Could my blood reach the stream?

Is it?

Posted on

Full moon gone. Danced away with my good mood. Sometimes I give it up easily, sometimes I hang on to it.

This is a new one. A remake where they changed not only the cast, but the ending as well. 

A fucking fit of depression. Another one of self loathing. My own resilience put to the test. I'm pulled apart. Ripped. Spread.

But I can't go in. I can't dive. I float and look and helplessness is not even beggining to explain. 

Or maybe I'm just at the bottom, finally.

It's fucking dark in here.