a dream or...?
she was there with me again, in my dream, all beautiful and so pale almost fluorescent. fragile and slightly translucent china fingers, arms, cheeks - her hairlessness hidden under a thin cap (if she removed it the baby would scream and scream.) we, her family, husband, mother, were all planning route, the best way to get her to the hospital. she confessed she was not sure about driving at accelerated speeds down the highway, the tempt and ease it would be to just turn the wheel and extra few inches and lead-foot'er home. her secret, she wouldn't be able to resist and would take us all as well. seemed logical to me, and not surprising, as mother and father's children are prone to such destructive visions, the resisting such things being just another constant battle/worry/reminder of the mind's frailty. i felt the all too familiar vivid rush of the crack/smash flames and twinkling glass, twisted necks and bristling bone tearing vessels and nerves, the taste of broken teeth and bile, the exhale. ah, yes, she would not be driving tonight over and through state lines and forests, on licorice whip routes to the North, to the once Institute of hope and salvation. really, what the fuck does it matter anyway? we were taking her up there to be euthanized, so it would be the same either way for her, yes, we might as well be driving a hearse. if she doesn't drive we are safe to live through, to get on with it, to embrace whatever disease or disgust that wrecks our bodies and to wait for death with some sort of dignity.
my other sister does not get to visit with Wobeastman in her dreams, the elder sister's advice and life and love is now blank to her, there is only emptiness, a space, a lack of. a void. avoid each other as often as possible and maybe we will not feel that absence (as much) or not have to deal with it (as much) - hell, it's worked for us for 2+ years, why not a little more? instead we're ripping at strings and stabbing down in during polite Wednesday luncheons.
i sometimes think about what it was like to drown to death from pneumonia.
we are all bombs, it is just a matter of time. really, why bother? nothing can change the helplessness, no matter how many bones you have to wish on.
i have had a block so long, but these are the thoughts i need to write out, the vile vomit self-deprecating hopeless worthless thoughts. better to keep these mainly for myself, selfishgrrl, as they are obsessively interesting to me, but a bore to all else. curl them up light years from you in my prickly urchin center, a little origami cephalopod snuggled in with the layoff, graduate school failure, suicide failures, surgeries, war zone home, war zone school, perpetual meds, dad dead, ugly fat girl, darkest closet corner, sledgehammer slaps, stupid meatbag restrictions, sexless numbness, the unplanned unfortunate accidental life. i've always been sick, but it took 23 years to hear an echo, a response, a hand break the surface of the water to help me home, or at least point me in some sort of positive direction. it's been 14 years of growth since, and working toward and up, nose grinding away at the wheel.
i do not know where i am, nor how far i've come, my steps seemingly in circles, and spiraling wildly off varied simultaneous pathways. different fingers, different pies. thing that sucks so hard about the mental is you can never share it, never be understood, never be touched. my layer of numb is so thick i can't even think of it as a layer anymore, more like a …cancer? my urchin buried so deep it is off in some overgrown and long forgotten temple, traps ready to spring at a feather's breeze, long rotten in the darkest deep, a hard rock lump, pile of ash. no matter how hard i'm beaten, it really never goes further than the skin. words are translated to fists, and only exist to be reconstructed and translated into self hatred i can understand. everything filters through anger so fine it is sharpened and whittled down to scattered shards, lodged in the numb and festering diseased slits into the whole mess. it is a solitary kind of hurt.
one is never so lonely as when they are in heart wrenching love with another, only then do you realize how terribly and inconceivably far away that soul is from yours. we can mash our flesh together, attempt to communicate through the writhing meat of our tongues, cry and scream and claw our way toward each other …but we are different systems in different galaxies and never, never touch. on the outside there is continued repair and slight accomplishment (at least): the landlord gets called, loans are taken care of (or at least put off), responsibilities tended and the checks keep coming for another month.
another month?
and what then? then i am nothing,
less than nothing.
my other sister does not get to visit with Wobeastman in her dreams, the elder sister's advice and life and love is now blank to her, there is only emptiness, a space, a lack of. a void. avoid each other as often as possible and maybe we will not feel that absence (as much) or not have to deal with it (as much) - hell, it's worked for us for 2+ years, why not a little more? instead we're ripping at strings and stabbing down in during polite Wednesday luncheons.
i sometimes think about what it was like to drown to death from pneumonia.
we are all bombs, it is just a matter of time. really, why bother? nothing can change the helplessness, no matter how many bones you have to wish on.
i have had a block so long, but these are the thoughts i need to write out, the vile vomit self-deprecating hopeless worthless thoughts. better to keep these mainly for myself, selfishgrrl, as they are obsessively interesting to me, but a bore to all else. curl them up light years from you in my prickly urchin center, a little origami cephalopod snuggled in with the layoff, graduate school failure, suicide failures, surgeries, war zone home, war zone school, perpetual meds, dad dead, ugly fat girl, darkest closet corner, sledgehammer slaps, stupid meatbag restrictions, sexless numbness, the unplanned unfortunate accidental life. i've always been sick, but it took 23 years to hear an echo, a response, a hand break the surface of the water to help me home, or at least point me in some sort of positive direction. it's been 14 years of growth since, and working toward and up, nose grinding away at the wheel.
i do not know where i am, nor how far i've come, my steps seemingly in circles, and spiraling wildly off varied simultaneous pathways. different fingers, different pies. thing that sucks so hard about the mental is you can never share it, never be understood, never be touched. my layer of numb is so thick i can't even think of it as a layer anymore, more like a …cancer? my urchin buried so deep it is off in some overgrown and long forgotten temple, traps ready to spring at a feather's breeze, long rotten in the darkest deep, a hard rock lump, pile of ash. no matter how hard i'm beaten, it really never goes further than the skin. words are translated to fists, and only exist to be reconstructed and translated into self hatred i can understand. everything filters through anger so fine it is sharpened and whittled down to scattered shards, lodged in the numb and festering diseased slits into the whole mess. it is a solitary kind of hurt.
one is never so lonely as when they are in heart wrenching love with another, only then do you realize how terribly and inconceivably far away that soul is from yours. we can mash our flesh together, attempt to communicate through the writhing meat of our tongues, cry and scream and claw our way toward each other …but we are different systems in different galaxies and never, never touch. on the outside there is continued repair and slight accomplishment (at least): the landlord gets called, loans are taken care of (or at least put off), responsibilities tended and the checks keep coming for another month.
another month?
and what then? then i am nothing,
less than nothing.