The well

Get off the path

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For fuck’s sake, why do you think it’s called a bike path? Does it say pedestrian path? Is there a little stick man painted on the asphalt? NO! So get the fuck out of my way. Seriously, lovers strolling, grabbing their asses, taking the whole fucking width, or families, with brats running all over the place. I’m coming full speed, braking, saying excuse me, you’re playing fucking deaf and act surprised when I give you shit. At least stay on one side, at least walk in the same direction as the traffic, at least watch behind you once in a while, at least teach your kids to be aware that there are people coming at 20 miles per hour in both directions. Better yet, why don’t you find a fucking sidewalk and stay off the fucking BIKE path.

That being said, I got my new bike today. A great ride. I love it.

On another note, I’m very pissed off at myself today. I had a horrible day at work, a coworker lost it and screamed at me like I was a piece of shit, basically because she can’t handle the work load I give her and she keeps fucking up big time. As of December 2005, she has cost the company over 5,000$ in mistakes, and a major one could’ve cost us around 100,000$ but we were able to repair it. But she’s the wife of my boss’ friend. So. Anyway, all that to say that instead of telling her to eat shit and die, I ate my emotions. Gummy bears, Goodies, Pretzels. Like a damn pig. And I hate it, I hate that feeling. Those feelings. Tomorrow I’m going to come into the office and kill the bitch.

Pushing boulders

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Sometimes the boulder is a real one.

Sometimes the boulder is just a prop, like in Hollywood.

Looking at them you’d never know the difference.

Anticipation of the effort ahead is misled.

I gamble a lot.

There was something

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There was something wrong that summer.
She was drunk a lot, he was high a lot.
Too many people were sleeping over.
The music was always too loud.
Someone made me drink a glass of Tia Maria with milk.
We had a new car, a summer home, new furniture.
Something wrong.
We were three for the last time.
This is me, this was me.
I remember everything, except what I forgot.

It’s the thin skin under the thick one

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But it’s all good. Damn if I can’t learn from my mistakes. I let things overwhelm me, inside. Never outside. I’m cool. I’m the fucking embodiment of cool. Inside, inside is where it’s going on.

Learning also to let enough shit to seep out, keep enough in. Balance. Oh, it gets heavier on this side here once in a while. But never enough that I loose sight of reality. Of the world outside.

Just add some fluff. Just add some light. Just add some laughs. And you got me. All of it.

Trapped

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The escape I seeked seems to have taken over. Bigger than the situation. I was running away, hit a wall, found a secret door. I wish I didn’t enter at times. I wish I could stay inside too.

I fed the escape. Gave it more meaning, more importance than I should’ve. I fed the escape and now it won’t stop eating.

I think I might be trapped. And I’m very afraid.

My winter of discontent*

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I was walking towards my car in the Home Depot parking lot. I had to buy a few things but walked out emtpy handed. I couldn’t make up my mind, didn’t like anything. I opened the car door, sat in, closed the door. The biggest sigh of my life came out of me like an elephant falling on its side. I looked outside, at the empty carts, the parked cars, the drizzle on the windshield.

-I’m tired of this fucking life. Sick and tired of it all.

Outloud, like that, it came out. No intonation, no emotion. Just a statement that needed to be said. Outloud.

I put the key in the ignition, started the car and pulled out of the parking space. Drove. Stopped at Blockbuster and got Halloween, From dusk till dawn and Ferris Buller’s day off. Drove some more, past my house, around the block, back to my house. Parked. Got out. Walked in.

Got on with my life.

It’s spring now.

*title credit: Jeliel

The frayed ends of sanity

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Just flirting with paranoia. Just sweet talk in my ear.

I’ve created I think.

A space, a time.

Angers, justifies, explains.

The eyes, the minds that judge me.

I am alone, I am surrounded.

I drown within the black of my hopes.

I do not falter under the weight of your good conscience.

I am the center, bullseye on my fingers.

I am love, I am embrace, I am despair, I am sorrow.

I will give until I am emtpy, weather there’s a taker or not.

One word

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There are times I miss getting wasted. Acid, mescalin, thc, coke, pills, booze, whatever I could put my hands on. To look at life, at things, at people, as colors and movements and temperatures and smells. Lobotomized reality. There are times, I wish emotions did not take over and hurt so bad.

That’s a lame statement, “hurt so bad”. It doesn’t really translate the actual hurt, because we hear and say it so much. When I say hurt, I mean physically hurting, scathing, scorching, mutilating. It’s ripping my insides, it’s choking me.

I feel totally lost, totally alone in my hurt. I feel pushed away, when in fact I was pulled in.

I’m sad, sad, sad so fucking sad. I will do what I do every day. I will say what I say every day. But I will go to bed sad. And I will wake up sad. And only one word could turn this around. Not two, not three. Just like only one drove me here.

Hours will pass. Days will pass. The sadness will recede, like a wave. Will return, like the tide. But to where the word came from, to where the word could come from, I will go back. I will ask again. I take full responsability. The fear of rejection is lesser than the desire of acceptance.

I want to beg, I want to plea, I want to kneel in front of you and cry. I want everything to stop. Everything to be right.

I still hope to hear the word. Because to think that it will not come is unbearable. I was there not too long ago. Thought I was through, thought I was done. Then one word. Like boiling water over everything I’ve said. Like when you stroke a match. Me. Instant combustion. Scorched remains, ashes.

Sweep me off the floor. Blow me away. I’m done.

Click here to enter

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A question, that I was not able to answer
A question, that I still hear
“What do you like?”
Months, and still
The interrogation is laughing at me
“What do you like?”
And at the time, sitting on the floor
Between his legs, my face resting on his thigh
I could not come up with an answer
“I don’t know, I don’t know”
Even as I said it, I was ashamed
Of myself, of the sound the words made
I still hear it, them
Because I’ve yet to come up with an answer
“What do you like?”
Sport fuck performance anxiety
Tanned tight smooth
Hairless plastic latex covered feelings
Bound branded humiliated underfoot
Dominated submissive trampled
Nothing is real, it’s downloaded
How am I supposed to know?
How are we supposed to know?

Scorpio rising

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When you kiss the base o’my spine
Make my body into your shrine
You give me this feeling deep inside
One that I can no longer disguise
While other snakes just shed their skins
Fucked holes pointing out my sins
Even though I realise that history’s not on my side
Even though I realise the pioneer skin still curls up in my eyes
If I don’t go crazy, I’ll lose my mind
I saw a life before me but now I’m blind
I wanna go to heaven, never been there before
I wanna go to heaven, so you give me some more
-Death in Vegas

Rising from ashes scattered already
I am not lost, just looking for a destination
I want to go there
I want to go where you saw it
What did you see anyway?
Not saying, not telling
Well, I’m on my way
I’ll be there. To see.

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It’s been occuring more and more. I find more meaning in other people’s words than in mine. It frustrates me and inspires me at the same time. Sometimes I feel like all has been said, then I realize that what I have to say, write, cannot come from someone else, therefore can not have been told. I’m exploring other words, other rythms. In my head. Now I have to give them life.

Writing is becoming an art. Again. After all these years. First here now. Journal. Now here something else. I love it, but I’m afraid. Of what I can write. And what I can’t write. That may be why I’m paying more attention to lyrics, stories, written by other people.

I need to write. That I know. Sometimes I don’t write, I don’t post, but the words are all there. Knocking, tearing, pushing. I’m holding back, but what? At other times I write like mad. Unsent letters. And I know it’s good. But why is it easier to delete than send or post?