has it been kind? i should be a fool to think it has. and i'm not sure i want it to. at least not to me. perhaps others, other souls which serve true purpose and meet needs of each other, bouncing around and need-meeting and hard-loving, instead of crossing every line that is thinkable and failing, undeniably, at each little obstacle and challenge. its true that we meet many people over the course of our lives, hollowed-out and thin, hearty and honey-like, thick and sweet. sometimes these people candy-coat our existence. sometimes they **** it over. sometimes they simply sit, limp and lifeless, like a dead ballerina. serving no purpose other than for us to spit upon them, curse them out, regard and disregard. often they come and go, allowing us to live on, just living it out like a Greenland shark. but despite these people, despite these purpose-driven minds, i still stand around with this empty head of mine. and yes, i have no doubt i can create beautiful things. but i am certainly not one of them.
to me, it is interesting how being alive is so unacceptable, seemingly only it becomes so in the wee hours of the morning, like four am, right before the coffee and right after you've awoken from your most recent nightmarish fever dream. when the disintegration of your soul has yet to become entirely apparent. when you've yet to look in that ****** mirror and see yourself looking like death warmed over; ready to take on a new day, yeah right. and often, things, people, places, smells and sights and sounds and textures and tastes and simply cogs of our lives take it all back to those moments. telling myself to forget them, push them away like i always do when things get too close, too much. remembering anyways. that first touch, the blankness that follows. the feeling of being split open. being broken. thinking i would die. living anyways.
looking at people. remembering. like the way things tasted so good before. and the way they taste now. the lions at the zoo. pacing, hungry, fantasizing about ripping the fat white man's head off, feeling the bones crumble between their teeth, licking up the blood and ruling the world. how bad i felt for them. the time i turned too fast, too tight on my old bicycle. more blood. laughing. shaking. bandaids and a dark bathroom. the smell of chocolate cake and the scent of wine on my mothers lips as she came close. go to bed. the deadpan thump of the kitten against the wall. an empty kitchen table. summer nights that drifted through the windows, ate you up and calmed you down. black shoes that clacked against white linoleum. ******'s army. discovery channel and broken televisions. racism. mud fights in the river behind the small brick house, grass for miles and nowhere to go. thick honey people whose touch felt lighter than feathers. belly laughs, beer drinkers and thin paper-weight women. hospitals and IV drips, sunburns and stars you could actually see. tranquilizers and sickdays and scalding showers. obliviousness. neutrality.
happy childhood, sad childhood.
crazy talking teeth.what more could you ask from a primordial life?
i should be a fool to think it's been kind. whether i feel sorry for myself, that's another question. sometimes i am like the three-legged dog, dragging a leftover stump behind itself, buzzing with flies, whining and cowering and sitting in its own ****. ugly and dejected, victim to helplessness. a street-walker, a tired-talker.
then, i get filled up. with some insanity, a mix of molten rage, and that dangerous thing called hope. break the glass ceiling and you'll make it in life. or drown in it, and you become identical to every other human being that every lived and didn't end up in a book. a nuisance. an addict to all the small things life has to offer, never willing, never ballsy enough to allow themselves to get hooked in the cheek by some life-changing ****.
yeah, cuz that's it. that's the thing.
everyone is just absolutely
terrified.