(no subject)
It's 3:32 and the lights are at 100%. The world is quiet in this tucked-up bit of dark space where I lay down my consciousness to rest each night. I am so angry at life, I can't scream myself hoarse enough to make a difference. I cannot keep it together anymore. I am worried for the future. I am terrified of the past. Everything is moving in dizzying circles, constantly and so much of what I counted on for stability and sanity, is lost. Every time I turn around it's someone else's number that's up..another person I love awakens to their final turndown service. Some days I wonder who the lucky ones are. If whether surviving them is enough anymore, or if it ever was. When people act so ugly in this world and even the strongest and best of us punch out, too soon.
I'm tired of cancer claiming the lives of people I love. I am tired of fighting. I am tired of feeling like I have my back up against a wall and a knife to my throat. If every single time I start to feel good, someone is going to be ripped from my life, then I just don't think I have it in me to feel good anymore. Recovering from the trauma of death, one life at a time, I've spent years deluding myself that we're all just here living out our karma-- for the suffering we've created or the blessings we've performed. And if that's true then I have no desire to ever know what despicable creature I was the last go-round that I'd be spit out in this wretched form, sniveling as I flail about, trying to clasp the fingers of my betters, before they slip out of existence-- bemoaning the fact that their sickness, or death was inconvenient for me, or because I wasn't ready for it. I can't even bring up my screen most days without the worry for reading the local news. I don't want to know who is next. I am walking you home in the dark, one at a time, and I just don't have the courage for it. The darkness hides manifest, all the the thoughts we've borne. I just can't bring myself back around to the light anymore. I've tried to embody love and compassion. I've tried to model thoughts after awareness and oneness. The darkness keeps seeping in, under my fingernails and between my teeth, at the edge of my lips and my eyes. And my brain is on fire with the memory of loss. And the memory of countless tears shed for countless griefs.
As the pulse of this universe is growing more faint on my fingertips, as the tightly held throats of the masses are loosened, let us breathe a collective sigh of relief, that my thoughts are not your own, that your hearts and minds are tempered by stronger forces than those that shape mine. Let us be grateful that I am not the creator of this universe, for I would snuff us out in a trice.
I'm tired of cancer claiming the lives of people I love. I am tired of fighting. I am tired of feeling like I have my back up against a wall and a knife to my throat. If every single time I start to feel good, someone is going to be ripped from my life, then I just don't think I have it in me to feel good anymore. Recovering from the trauma of death, one life at a time, I've spent years deluding myself that we're all just here living out our karma-- for the suffering we've created or the blessings we've performed. And if that's true then I have no desire to ever know what despicable creature I was the last go-round that I'd be spit out in this wretched form, sniveling as I flail about, trying to clasp the fingers of my betters, before they slip out of existence-- bemoaning the fact that their sickness, or death was inconvenient for me, or because I wasn't ready for it. I can't even bring up my screen most days without the worry for reading the local news. I don't want to know who is next. I am walking you home in the dark, one at a time, and I just don't have the courage for it. The darkness hides manifest, all the the thoughts we've borne. I just can't bring myself back around to the light anymore. I've tried to embody love and compassion. I've tried to model thoughts after awareness and oneness. The darkness keeps seeping in, under my fingernails and between my teeth, at the edge of my lips and my eyes. And my brain is on fire with the memory of loss. And the memory of countless tears shed for countless griefs.
As the pulse of this universe is growing more faint on my fingertips, as the tightly held throats of the masses are loosened, let us breathe a collective sigh of relief, that my thoughts are not your own, that your hearts and minds are tempered by stronger forces than those that shape mine. Let us be grateful that I am not the creator of this universe, for I would snuff us out in a trice.