(no subject)
' two years he walks the earth. no phone, no pool, no pets, no cigarettes. ultimate Freedom. an extremist. an aesthetic voyager whose only home is the Road. Thou shalt not return, 'cause 'the West is the best.' And now, after two rambling years comes the final and greatest adventure. the climactic battle to kill the false being within and victoriously conclude the spiritual pilgrimage. no longer to be poisoned by civilization he flees, and walks alone upon the land to become lost in the Wild... '
i tell myself, through gritted teeth and invisible rosary beads, that i will do THIS, this daily act of dying to the EVERYTHING that is Out There, for one.final.year. hiding out in my parent's old bedroom, obsessively reading about seasonal harvest work (i'm actually starting to get some concrete ideas of how it's done...), vagabonding with no money through massive swaths of land, living with only your sheer dumb wits, luck, and the kindness of strangers to see you along. as i sit, clutching at my hands in helpless revilement, my mother asks me where i would go, and what i would do; that insistent, haunting question driving me to sheer distraction, because therein lies the key to 'escape': being able to provide some sort of concrete answer to that statement. i would LIVE, that's what i would do. gulping at Life in mad and swarthy draughts, i am more afraid to spend countless nights hidden behind these 4 walls, than i would EVER be to bed down in the strangest of places, under the most 'inhumane' of circumstances. they continue to cling fervently to the idea that i can still 'make something' of myself, me with my lovely U of M degree, and my libelious criminal record that still continues to astound even me, and i truly, truly pity them for that.
the writing doesn't come as easily as it once did,
The panic is never-ending, the panic eats away at my body, my brain, my emotions, my psyche, my spirit, my OM and my AH. The Panic is everything that is, everything that was, everything that will ever be again. The Panic supercedes any desires to do anything with my life, because I believe, so fervently and completely, that my life is over. The Panic, because the Panic knows the truth, that I cannot tell my counselor, i cannot tell my mother, I cannot tell anyone. I purposely destroyed my life. I purposely took every risk there was to take, and set fire to joints, to dollar bills, to rental agreements, paychecks, resumes, so many times, both literally and figuratively, that there is nothing left to do. The Panic will destroy my mind, The Panic already has. There is nothing left; I looked in the mirror tonight and saw a lifeless, soulless person, with NO SPIRIT, looking back at me. That person looked like she was dying. That person is dying. Little by little, day by day, week by week, that person is already dying. I killed myself, but I didn't die... And then I found more options for self-destruction, and I took them. 'Do you believe in signs...?' I asked that girl, and just because a homeless boy from Asheville's phone was in my pocket, I set it all ablaze; the last 'real' job I'll ever have, probably, through a temp service in Muskegon. To have fallen so, so far, and then only to keep falling, so that I can moan, cry, complain for MONTHS on end because I don't know what the fuck to do anymore. The list of things I cannot do is so immensely long; you CAN'T get by in this life with a criminal record, especially when you had so many FUCKING DREAMS for your life. I'm not going to make it; there is no point anymore. I can't navigate through this world, ever, ever again, not when it's as DAMN difficult as it is, not when my spirit is as broken as it is.
Not when I'm as sick as I am. And I'm SICK, and I know it, and I feel it. I sense it, and I have sensed it, through all those cold winter months, sitting in Tricia's outdoor room, high on Spice, I felt it in my aching bones and my lack of energy. In the never-ending rumbles of my stomach, in the pain in my guts. In the fact that I don't know when I last had a period, and the ones I've had have been heavier than usual, a LOT heavier, and lasted longer. I think that I'm sick. Really sick. In the fact that, this past summer, 2 times I had a period, and was throwing up, HEAVING my guts out, for 3 days straight; the 2nd time lasted upwards of a week - I simply COULDN'T stop throwing up. Never, ever has something like that happened - and TWICE when I've first gotten a period?! Something is wrong, something is wrong, something is really, really wrong. And I can't bring myself to function, because I truly don't think there's a point anymore. All of this gets WORSE, infinitely worse, when I'm stoned, but that's just because the enormity of everything hits me full fucking force, and there's nothing left to do, but let it echo around inside the walls of my skull.
I forsook the children, several times.... What is the punishment for that? What is the punishment when getting HIGH supercedes the needs, the desires, the beauty of the children? It's on the tip of my tongue, its in the tip of my fingers. It's in my head, and won't leave; hasn't left for a while now. I don't value life enough to keep on trying. There are too many limits, infinite limits, upon my too-young, crazy, and psychotic soul; there were too many things I wanted to do, too many places I wanted to go. To not even be able to DRIVE, ever again - that, in and of itself, is a near-fatal blow. To have been out of work for almost a year, to have walked away from the last job I had after 6 months - this is all just truly too, too insane, and I'm not going to make it through it. The burning effigy of my life is sitting there, on the sidewalk next to that alcoholic man. I am not even as brave as that alcoholic man, sitting there on the sidewalk - he is still ALIVE. He didn't have the POTENTIAL that I did, and then, thrown it all away, burned it up, with a 'I don't give a fuck, and the rest of my LIFE doesn't give a fuck either.' I'm crazy, I'm insane. Diagnosing me as bi-polar or whatever it is, that doesn't come CLOSE to addressing the fact that I Purposely Destroyed My Life. There are no pills for that, there are no criminal expungements, and so... I'm done. I'm doomed, and I'm done for. This is all that has been going around in my head, for days, weeks, months upon months now. It's over.
i tell myself, through gritted teeth and invisible rosary beads, that i will do THIS, this daily act of dying to the EVERYTHING that is Out There, for one.final.year. hiding out in my parent's old bedroom, obsessively reading about seasonal harvest work (i'm actually starting to get some concrete ideas of how it's done...), vagabonding with no money through massive swaths of land, living with only your sheer dumb wits, luck, and the kindness of strangers to see you along. as i sit, clutching at my hands in helpless revilement, my mother asks me where i would go, and what i would do; that insistent, haunting question driving me to sheer distraction, because therein lies the key to 'escape': being able to provide some sort of concrete answer to that statement. i would LIVE, that's what i would do. gulping at Life in mad and swarthy draughts, i am more afraid to spend countless nights hidden behind these 4 walls, than i would EVER be to bed down in the strangest of places, under the most 'inhumane' of circumstances. they continue to cling fervently to the idea that i can still 'make something' of myself, me with my lovely U of M degree, and my libelious criminal record that still continues to astound even me, and i truly, truly pity them for that.
the writing doesn't come as easily as it once did,
The panic is never-ending, the panic eats away at my body, my brain, my emotions, my psyche, my spirit, my OM and my AH. The Panic is everything that is, everything that was, everything that will ever be again. The Panic supercedes any desires to do anything with my life, because I believe, so fervently and completely, that my life is over. The Panic, because the Panic knows the truth, that I cannot tell my counselor, i cannot tell my mother, I cannot tell anyone. I purposely destroyed my life. I purposely took every risk there was to take, and set fire to joints, to dollar bills, to rental agreements, paychecks, resumes, so many times, both literally and figuratively, that there is nothing left to do. The Panic will destroy my mind, The Panic already has. There is nothing left; I looked in the mirror tonight and saw a lifeless, soulless person, with NO SPIRIT, looking back at me. That person looked like she was dying. That person is dying. Little by little, day by day, week by week, that person is already dying. I killed myself, but I didn't die... And then I found more options for self-destruction, and I took them. 'Do you believe in signs...?' I asked that girl, and just because a homeless boy from Asheville's phone was in my pocket, I set it all ablaze; the last 'real' job I'll ever have, probably, through a temp service in Muskegon. To have fallen so, so far, and then only to keep falling, so that I can moan, cry, complain for MONTHS on end because I don't know what the fuck to do anymore. The list of things I cannot do is so immensely long; you CAN'T get by in this life with a criminal record, especially when you had so many FUCKING DREAMS for your life. I'm not going to make it; there is no point anymore. I can't navigate through this world, ever, ever again, not when it's as DAMN difficult as it is, not when my spirit is as broken as it is.
Not when I'm as sick as I am. And I'm SICK, and I know it, and I feel it. I sense it, and I have sensed it, through all those cold winter months, sitting in Tricia's outdoor room, high on Spice, I felt it in my aching bones and my lack of energy. In the never-ending rumbles of my stomach, in the pain in my guts. In the fact that I don't know when I last had a period, and the ones I've had have been heavier than usual, a LOT heavier, and lasted longer. I think that I'm sick. Really sick. In the fact that, this past summer, 2 times I had a period, and was throwing up, HEAVING my guts out, for 3 days straight; the 2nd time lasted upwards of a week - I simply COULDN'T stop throwing up. Never, ever has something like that happened - and TWICE when I've first gotten a period?! Something is wrong, something is wrong, something is really, really wrong. And I can't bring myself to function, because I truly don't think there's a point anymore. All of this gets WORSE, infinitely worse, when I'm stoned, but that's just because the enormity of everything hits me full fucking force, and there's nothing left to do, but let it echo around inside the walls of my skull.
I forsook the children, several times.... What is the punishment for that? What is the punishment when getting HIGH supercedes the needs, the desires, the beauty of the children? It's on the tip of my tongue, its in the tip of my fingers. It's in my head, and won't leave; hasn't left for a while now. I don't value life enough to keep on trying. There are too many limits, infinite limits, upon my too-young, crazy, and psychotic soul; there were too many things I wanted to do, too many places I wanted to go. To not even be able to DRIVE, ever again - that, in and of itself, is a near-fatal blow. To have been out of work for almost a year, to have walked away from the last job I had after 6 months - this is all just truly too, too insane, and I'm not going to make it through it. The burning effigy of my life is sitting there, on the sidewalk next to that alcoholic man. I am not even as brave as that alcoholic man, sitting there on the sidewalk - he is still ALIVE. He didn't have the POTENTIAL that I did, and then, thrown it all away, burned it up, with a 'I don't give a fuck, and the rest of my LIFE doesn't give a fuck either.' I'm crazy, I'm insane. Diagnosing me as bi-polar or whatever it is, that doesn't come CLOSE to addressing the fact that I Purposely Destroyed My Life. There are no pills for that, there are no criminal expungements, and so... I'm done. I'm doomed, and I'm done for. This is all that has been going around in my head, for days, weeks, months upon months now. It's over.