Apocalypse . . .
Open these wings, look to the stars, and ascend solitary into the heavens only to inevitably fall again to the earth, instruments of freedom twisted into cruel bars of constraint. Fate turns her head away, her steady hand without need to provide guidance; one who divines itself into the preset caste need not be corrected. Bleeding, faltering, undecidedly these hands reach up grasping at the still twilight air as if to seek purchase in the cold points of light in steel blue haze. Meaningless.
Eloquence fails me; more than anything I fail me. This is pointless; read for whatever sake there may be; but more than anything this is for me.
My life. My existence. My perception. Three of the very most essentials that I may own completely and still yet so unsubstantially. To own something does not by any means or form prove to be indicative of control. Such things are farce, facade, illusion, fantasy. Hope. And still to deny this to float in the rivers of reality is at best lazy. Where is my medium?
What a mixed blessing, these memories. My first memories. Of being young; of living. Even today I find it curious; these thoughts. Remembering my thoughts then, my memories then, and to compare them to those of now. My first memories are not pleasant ones, but they hardly cause me pain in this self dejected state. However, they thread together so well, like the lining of a quilt that waits to be sewn.
Daycare. I'm 3, perhaps 4. A kid is trying to drown me. Either a worker at the daycare or a lifeguard pulls him off me. I forget why he did this; perhaps I called him a name. The blue apartments, I'm 3. Whether this is before or after the pool is uncertain. It's after a rain (It seems to me that it rained so much more when I was smaller) and I'm on the grass next the playground with this other kid who tries to get me to eat his mud cookies. I refuse. We fight, and I end up in the puddle. That puddle. The one full of twisted metal and glass. After that, I remember being in the doctors office and I can't move my pinky. The tendon's severed; and later I recall the hospital and the cast I wore. I'm four now, at at the white apartments right near the pool I was nearly drown. I can hear the neighbor kids talking about the dead cat across the street. The little girls who show me their naked selves. Tyler and I under sheets showing each other our penises and me asking if God could see us under the sheets. Shooting my mother in the leg with the spinning top gun when she comes to get me. Throwing our cat Fuzzbucket down the stairs. Tag at a family friend's house, me chasing this guy down the stairs, and the smile on his face as he closes the patio door on me and I run into it, causing a need for stitches. Brad spanking me with a belt for being under the water bed. And their wedding. How I forget that he wasn't my real dad; my real dad is in my mind sitting back at the blue apartments on that same hill I fought the cookie kid, with mother and me getting the brush tangled in her hair. Here seems to be where I realize I'm broken. How I treated Heather; how I was so hateful to her and made her cry and reveled in it. The games I played. All the trouble I got into at school, and being kicked out of Jackson Elementary. Running full speed on my bike into a metal rimmed wagon wheel, and blacking out to wake up moments later doused in blood. Derek and Josh molesting me; my supposed friends, and the police afterwards who accused me of molesting them and making me admit to it; something I never did. Being rejected at Ash Grove and placed in special squares. Being suspended. Again. And again. Lunch alone. Recess alone, hanging upside down from the monkey bars and dropping onto my head incessantly. The neighbor kids smearing mud on my penis in their backyard. Dropping from the trees in the yard out back of my house. Playing alone with my legos. Being molested by 5th graders out in the school yard after classes. Being beat up on the way to school, and the people who did it used my own lunch to do so. Crying at the end of the school year in 2nd grade at Ash Grove, after finding out they planned to move me to Lincoln. And the hatred. 3rd grade; a faint blur. Very few thoughts surface from then, or 4th grade. Throwing desks, screaming profanities, and telling teachers I wanted to die. Counselors ignoring my attempts to communicate my feelings. This was also the time I realized that I was more intelligent than most of the other kids, and being arrogant to no end. Fights on the playgrounds. Kurtis and the 'games' on the bus involving my penis. Having to walk in the cold because I missed the bus. Being the smartest in the class and the least liked. And then Curtis. That first true exploration into sexual identity, the things we did. The rejection that came later; perhaps because of the type of person I was. And then middle school; and being alone. Eventually, though, I made friends. I was the good kid by this point. And still. Being chased by people in cars, people I've never seen. Having to fight a group of kids of Halloween night to protect my sister and her friend. Getting punched in the hallway in 7th grade, and the mess that came from that. Brad throwing my mother over in a chair after they decided on divorce. Being accused of lying about thinking he was my father. Growing to hate people to the point I lost interest in them; and also to hide my feelings, to hide who I was.
These.
All of these. The machine was built from these. To hide that scared messed up child and to make instead something with control; a thing that even rivaled the fantasy worlds in my own head. To use everyone; to use myself. Always analyzing, always hating. Justifying.
And never doing anything to better it.
Even then, despite very correct working of that machine, there was nothing but weakness. Insatiable desire to hate. And save. The kill everyone and everything over and over; to burn and writhe and suffer and execute with nothing less than complete lack of mercy only to turn around and save everyone from it; to be the hero. Completely pitiful.
Obsession. An act I always did excel at. It's easy to find excuses when that voice inside is the only one there is to persuade. Reasons to not love; excuses to hide.
Petals breaking away from a dying tree to drift and come to rest on forgotten pools.
Why I have become this; why is reality so broken for me? Is it because of fate that I am cast into this role or is it because I allow myself to continue on a stagnant course rather that forge forth into new territory?
Have I become something so desperately empty that I am unable to identify with others and them me; is this why I am alone? Due to my own breakdown; due to my own inability to control the decay?
Why should this even matter?
This will take me longer than expected.
Eloquence fails me; more than anything I fail me. This is pointless; read for whatever sake there may be; but more than anything this is for me.
My life. My existence. My perception. Three of the very most essentials that I may own completely and still yet so unsubstantially. To own something does not by any means or form prove to be indicative of control. Such things are farce, facade, illusion, fantasy. Hope. And still to deny this to float in the rivers of reality is at best lazy. Where is my medium?
What a mixed blessing, these memories. My first memories. Of being young; of living. Even today I find it curious; these thoughts. Remembering my thoughts then, my memories then, and to compare them to those of now. My first memories are not pleasant ones, but they hardly cause me pain in this self dejected state. However, they thread together so well, like the lining of a quilt that waits to be sewn.
Daycare. I'm 3, perhaps 4. A kid is trying to drown me. Either a worker at the daycare or a lifeguard pulls him off me. I forget why he did this; perhaps I called him a name. The blue apartments, I'm 3. Whether this is before or after the pool is uncertain. It's after a rain (It seems to me that it rained so much more when I was smaller) and I'm on the grass next the playground with this other kid who tries to get me to eat his mud cookies. I refuse. We fight, and I end up in the puddle. That puddle. The one full of twisted metal and glass. After that, I remember being in the doctors office and I can't move my pinky. The tendon's severed; and later I recall the hospital and the cast I wore. I'm four now, at at the white apartments right near the pool I was nearly drown. I can hear the neighbor kids talking about the dead cat across the street. The little girls who show me their naked selves. Tyler and I under sheets showing each other our penises and me asking if God could see us under the sheets. Shooting my mother in the leg with the spinning top gun when she comes to get me. Throwing our cat Fuzzbucket down the stairs. Tag at a family friend's house, me chasing this guy down the stairs, and the smile on his face as he closes the patio door on me and I run into it, causing a need for stitches. Brad spanking me with a belt for being under the water bed. And their wedding. How I forget that he wasn't my real dad; my real dad is in my mind sitting back at the blue apartments on that same hill I fought the cookie kid, with mother and me getting the brush tangled in her hair. Here seems to be where I realize I'm broken. How I treated Heather; how I was so hateful to her and made her cry and reveled in it. The games I played. All the trouble I got into at school, and being kicked out of Jackson Elementary. Running full speed on my bike into a metal rimmed wagon wheel, and blacking out to wake up moments later doused in blood. Derek and Josh molesting me; my supposed friends, and the police afterwards who accused me of molesting them and making me admit to it; something I never did. Being rejected at Ash Grove and placed in special squares. Being suspended. Again. And again. Lunch alone. Recess alone, hanging upside down from the monkey bars and dropping onto my head incessantly. The neighbor kids smearing mud on my penis in their backyard. Dropping from the trees in the yard out back of my house. Playing alone with my legos. Being molested by 5th graders out in the school yard after classes. Being beat up on the way to school, and the people who did it used my own lunch to do so. Crying at the end of the school year in 2nd grade at Ash Grove, after finding out they planned to move me to Lincoln. And the hatred. 3rd grade; a faint blur. Very few thoughts surface from then, or 4th grade. Throwing desks, screaming profanities, and telling teachers I wanted to die. Counselors ignoring my attempts to communicate my feelings. This was also the time I realized that I was more intelligent than most of the other kids, and being arrogant to no end. Fights on the playgrounds. Kurtis and the 'games' on the bus involving my penis. Having to walk in the cold because I missed the bus. Being the smartest in the class and the least liked. And then Curtis. That first true exploration into sexual identity, the things we did. The rejection that came later; perhaps because of the type of person I was. And then middle school; and being alone. Eventually, though, I made friends. I was the good kid by this point. And still. Being chased by people in cars, people I've never seen. Having to fight a group of kids of Halloween night to protect my sister and her friend. Getting punched in the hallway in 7th grade, and the mess that came from that. Brad throwing my mother over in a chair after they decided on divorce. Being accused of lying about thinking he was my father. Growing to hate people to the point I lost interest in them; and also to hide my feelings, to hide who I was.
These.
All of these. The machine was built from these. To hide that scared messed up child and to make instead something with control; a thing that even rivaled the fantasy worlds in my own head. To use everyone; to use myself. Always analyzing, always hating. Justifying.
And never doing anything to better it.
Even then, despite very correct working of that machine, there was nothing but weakness. Insatiable desire to hate. And save. The kill everyone and everything over and over; to burn and writhe and suffer and execute with nothing less than complete lack of mercy only to turn around and save everyone from it; to be the hero. Completely pitiful.
Obsession. An act I always did excel at. It's easy to find excuses when that voice inside is the only one there is to persuade. Reasons to not love; excuses to hide.
Petals breaking away from a dying tree to drift and come to rest on forgotten pools.
Why I have become this; why is reality so broken for me? Is it because of fate that I am cast into this role or is it because I allow myself to continue on a stagnant course rather that forge forth into new territory?
Have I become something so desperately empty that I am unable to identify with others and them me; is this why I am alone? Due to my own breakdown; due to my own inability to control the decay?
Why should this even matter?
This will take me longer than expected.