(no subject)
.declination.
The night before, I sit at the kitchen table thinking about the impact of loss. How lasting its totality can be. Such thoughts only belong to the night before when things are happening like they aren’t. Struggling in my chair, crooked and adjusting, and nothing happening. - I see a struggle, a fist beating into the table smashing itself. Knuckles breaking, flesh crushed and pinched. The wind gusts through the window and the verticals are banging back and forth against the metal frame. I am irritated by the random, unexpected thrashing around, clinking and clanking without any uniformity. Like winter wind blowing in my face, colder and colder and like, fuck you asshole, as if this isn’t already hard enough. My nails digging into my brow are a sudden reminder of how quickly I can summon this rage, how absolutely coreless I am. I think about how I save these moments for viewing, for the special occasions when I can be what I read - between self pity and self glorification is a pause. Mechanical things save me, they lend themselves so easily and are by nature an assurance of time. I wish I knew who I hated. Wishes are lovely, because wishes are like a little excuse. An excuse from actually hating. Ahh, oh well, so it goes, alas, never mind, it’s ok, anyway, forget it, hmgh, shrug, shucks, whatever, so it goes, one day, who knows, anywho, where were we? - I was having thoughts of annihilation. How lasting its totality can be. - I was smoking cigarettes on the corner of R St., sitting in a coffee shop patio and I must have looked really interesting and really beautiful and fucking cool, you know, because men were looking. I had this sharp jacket on and it was all an act so that I wouldn’t actually cry anymore. Because if I didn’t pretend that it was interesting and beautiful and fucking COOL and I actually had to feel rotten and pointlessly hopeless for one more fucking second I would have had nothing. And nothing is a hard thing to have. My lungs are sad and someone else’s insanity and pain are actually mentally abusive to me. Like a sponge I have accepted and fed on this negativity and the toxins that are passed from unwashed mouths and sick twisted brains. Function properly, you poor delusional fucked up scum. Malformed people, all around. It makes you want to stick things into yourself. Pills, powders, tongues, needles, liquids, sugars, cocks, smokes, toxins, razors, poisons, inks, preservatives, secrets, oils, depth. There are other things, there are heavy things that I chose. I chose them, so they are mine, because at least that way it is possible to believe that they can be expelled. How long before I am TOO FULL of shit? When its all inside, its all that comes out, so it feels kind of productive. Ejection implies work. Work implies evolvement. As if it is some great mystery why I approach each step with hate and anger. These are pages to this unwritten letter that I should one day write and have inside it many many instances and descriptions of each time, each day, each sentence that I took for a lie. It is all lies at face value. - And the fucking fridge is squealing, as if struggling to suck out the electricity from the wall. It makes me want to dig my nails into something soft. - I try to remember this place, keep track of the game, because it is so good it spins me around until I fall on my ass. I will never write a letter, I will never get my turn. Know that. I must know that. So easily confused, so easily pricked, that I am foaming at the mouth, that I am raving, that I am the irrational one, that I am the sick one, that I am the liar, the blind, mislead, in need of PROFFESSIONAL HELP, three laps around the house, calm yourself, you paranoid, deranged, malfunctioning, disrespectful waste. How capable I am of absolutely crumbling, how capable of granting this wish I am at every given moment. I can do it, I can tear at my face as if I don’t recognize it, I can run into the kitchen and come back to horrify you, I can kick and scream and refuse to hear words, and I can sob with such dry lungs that I become dizzy. You fuck. I can do it. I am what you say I am. It is not possible to know. It is not possible to know. It is not possible to know. The night before is nothing. I will still sleep, I will still wake up. Nothing can be taken from me.