Part Two: Reelings.
"They'll toss you down the oubliette
With all the old things that you let yourself forget.
Because you like to love a star
Who'd throw you down below the ground he thinks you are."
Early July.
Summer caught up on me and I've been trying to wash it from my skin. The heat: burning the dead leaves of autumn, creating fires and destroying my lungs. I lost the habit of keeping a journal. It all used to be in my head, falling into place whenever I felt the urge to write. Now, it's numbed to a swelling in my chest, some hunger at the back of my throat. Maybe I'm just confused about words and their meaning -or rather, my meaning.
Been hearing things again but can only accept they aren't all delusions. My head ticks hard before realising it can't give a fuck. I'm not sure where I stand, the reconstruction of certain mindsets have left rough patches here and there. To find the middleground between needing to be invisible and the complete abstraction of others -what a catch. Strangers are one thing; "People say friends don't destroy one another. What do they know about friends?" are another.
Get caught up in good intentions and do little -two hands too few to follow through. Haven't been writing, nor drawing much. I used to give power to things but seem to have forgotten to put any in my fists and despite anything or everything, I could still get beaten up real bad.
As things come and go, events have been more strange than glorious. My brother calls to tell me about his new apartment then warns me the father is going to send an e-mail. Haven't heard from him in two years, other than a letter informing me he was cutting off child support. Besides the inevitable snide comment, it states he's giving back savings he's kept for me, from when we lived in New Jersey. It's providential but it makes me feel bitter. It's mine but I don't know if I want it. I've been delaying my response but it can't go on like that. "And all the lines you drew for me to walk. Well, I walked them well, didn't I." Goddamn. I try to explain this to my mother, the surge of emotions and bad memories. How I don't need that in my life. She'd understand a vendetta much better but really, she should know we were never into spectacles -only keeping up appearances.
I've been cutting back and by consequence, sometimes feel blue, craving, scratching and itching. If drugs have upgraded from white cane to crutch to balance, I can only hope they won't become part of my cells. My body's been a blood bank to the mosquitoes and a playground for other games. I go out to buy smokes and see fire-engines siren.ing their way down the street; I can't see any flames and walk away. Dead birds on the sidewalks. Procastination. Dirt. On the verge of rising again but with no stairs or pedestals.
At nite, I'll sit and listen. Watch the dark enhancing the smoke; skies and aftermaths turned fumes, slipping from my lips. A nest of safety in complete insecurity. I curl against the warm body of a voice and there's no need to wonder where the truth is until I'm left with my doubts and past broken dreams. The sword of Damocles hanging over my head -I don't know yet if it will kill me or help the fight. It's good and terrible, all at once. There's no way to know which way to turn.