Revelation . . .
Finally, to bleed this dry; to snuff out the dying embers remaining inside. Having been filled with hate; consumed by remorse; taken by hopelessness; defeated entirely and left broken to die. Alone. To come to terms with this very simplest of facts; to move on. In many ways, this was to help that, to move on. To record, remember and learn. On some levels, this journal has been a success. On others, bitter failure. Regardless, everything that has a beginning will inevitably disperse, to flow outward and become parts of something new. Things move on, they end; and now too so does this.
Memories. Memories. Memories . . . Bitter. Distant, cold; making out distant images through flurries of snow. At last, having allowed myself to have these and review them, to detach from them, rather than be consumed by them; it is realized that although a person can change, life's lot is sometimes one that follows a course undeniable. A child, grown initially as shard who unerringly follows an altered path, breaking away from even the staunchest individualists to drift as debris through vacuous space. I have never been 'a person.'
As for the main purpose of those last entries recollections, it's understood now the place that person had in each of them; a steady flow from one end of the pool to the other. Detachment. The Machine serves to detach one from all that exists; everyone and every manner of thing; to hide the dreamer child away from all reality's shrapnel; all too late. No Machine or mechanism can create a shield to protect a being that commits such masochism such as to drive the very baned spikes into it's own flesh. Attempting to hide and destroy oneself with the ideals of 'understanding' is a flawed concept at best. Perhaps, more than any other singular attributable reason the machine has failed. Completely. Gears rust; gaskets are sprung, fuel leaks, the most essential mechanisms become discorded and out of sync.
Focus is no longer an option.
Now-
All that is left-
-----------------Is hope.
Hope for what could be-
-----------------For what is left.
What is left . . .
Everyday, it's as if everything is dying. Time breaks down. Life continues to broadcast messages; always seeming to grow louder. Perhaps this is due to my own thoughts. Meaning is not absolution; it is perception. Perhaps these things only have meaning because a brain says it does; rendering all purpose meaningless.
-And yet-
How do these themes continually pattern themselves out?
Unfalteringly.
Almost predictably.
Is this something the mind has created? Or is there more . . .
More and more; what is learned- People are never to be idealized. I will not be happy with anyone; growth comes from within. Continuously having been let down by person after person, and more importantly letting myself down because of them; and from there becoming unreliable, faltered; broken. There is no superiority, but there are levels of degradation. Choosing a lesser level is sometimes all one can do; but better to sway the oncoming breakdown than to merely open one's arms with acceptance.
Perhaps-
Of there is a soul-
It dies with each successive action that creates destruction.
Fading - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Maybe this is why people seem so lost; then again it's possible the mind uses them as a mirror to see oneself.
Is the desire to love destructive? Or is this part of the 'beauty of being human'? Through searching, all that's has been accomplished has been a loss of self; of confidence. Is watching so many drift out of reach a sign to be bitter; or to be courageous and idealistic as to not do the same? Again; is this all perception?
I recall the months I was depressed. The times roommates would come home to find me in a corner sobbing; or locked in the bathroom; or blood everywhere _-`-_
I hate myself; I hate my incessant loneliness; and feeling as if I'm not good enough for anyone.
This shouldn't be about people; life is too short for waiting.
And here I am; afraid of myself.
Is my detachment from 'reality' chemical; psychological; supernatural?
There have been short periods in my life; little bubbles wherein exists a state where all sense of space and logic was aborted. As a child of around 6ish; this was the first incident. I tied around my wrist a piece of yarn, which I was then compelled to tie to my dresser. However; it was dictated that I must still sleep in my bed, which left me lying there, hand outstretched as I lay there, string pulled taught between it's anchor point on the dresser and my awkward position on the bed. As it was so long ago, the reasoning behind this was unclear. The second came a few years later. I remember waking in the middle of the night, fully awake and again not; like living a dream. Silence proved to be an awful mistress, radiating such terrible unsounds like the pulse of a wicked heart. At that time; I became convinced that a vacuum existed outside the walls of the house, and that the air was leaking steadily out. I wandered absent of any real sense trying to 'fix' the problem. Feeling as if the answer was in the basement but never daring to go down there; where wicked things waited. I can't honestly remember when that ended. My eyes are watering.
The last time was in junior high; not quite as late as the last. Again, the sound of silence fills me with terror, all reality lost. It's hard to move, thoughts are think and unorganized. I'm wandering, trying to find the solution as to what needs to be done with my blanket. It's 'wrong'. I try the basement, leaving it down there, and return to bed. It doesn't work. The blanket is still 'wrong', I can feel it even upstairs in my room. Retrieving it I again search for a suitable location. The sheer lack of . . . Sense in these states is what hurts the worst. Finally, I manage to overcome it. Even today, certain rhythyms (Ceiling fans in restaurants) set that pulsing in my mind. Of everything considered, these few times are the ones that seem to have best perverted the concreteness of reality.
The pulsing never stops. It just grows dim.
I'm standing at home; I live with my mother, and am 17ish. I have a knife in my hand, I'm clicking it in and out. Mother walks out of her room, stops, looks at me. I turn, the knife clicks out, and we both look at it. My arm . . . moves without my consent, holding the knife out toward her; at her. That non-sound hums in my head, and for several long seconds there's just emptiness. And it's gone. She says a few shocked and angry few words, and that's that-
What happened?
Again. After I leave home, am living with Sean and his mom. I forget the cumulation, but the knife clicks out, and my hand reaches over and cuts Sean's leg. He just sits there; in shock, and then yells-
What happened?
After I return from Japan. The beginning of the breakdown; my Machine's malfunction. Months spent in silence; burrowing into my brain, leaving hollows that resound in the unsound; hours spent sobbing, that serrated knife tearing into flesh. My flesh. Why don't I think of it as -my- skin? And staring; unerring parade of thoughts making me into meat; into a soulless, hateful, empty machine. Let it end. If a being cannot function as part of it's species, then it should not be.
That cool evening after Dustin leaves and I intend to end my life; and the false sense of peace.
And now. Where am I now?
-----------------------
No more loss of control.
No more thoughts of suicide.
No more ideals of happily ever after.
No more androgyny; that sweet un-attraction towards people.
I am still me. This me is different from the old ones. It has comfort (Solace) with the old selves. All threads in the same tapestry, no one standing out more than another.
Casually, I wonder; "Can I be loved?"
I don't think so- But it's okay. Life pushes on.
I'm just another person. Who I was can't exist as I am now.
Tears stream outward, filled by everything (Hate, Love, Joy, Sorrow, Defeat, Grace, uncertainty) and seep into hollow bones to mold. More than anything. I feel (Haunted) solace.
Days I walk to work, and fleeting, I hear my name whispered. Always the same; since I was younger. It might all be a little mind game. Maybe I'm less than sane.
It makes one wonder about life; is reality really a dead inevitability? Or is it a facade like the so many faces I created; and sometimes just for a few seconds it loses it's own ability to project hopelessness; revealing instead something more cosmic.
Cosmically . . . Out there, in here- Maybe there is a niche for me. I'll make one for myself; thought I'll always wonder-
'Could I be with you?'
-Z-
Memories. Memories. Memories . . . Bitter. Distant, cold; making out distant images through flurries of snow. At last, having allowed myself to have these and review them, to detach from them, rather than be consumed by them; it is realized that although a person can change, life's lot is sometimes one that follows a course undeniable. A child, grown initially as shard who unerringly follows an altered path, breaking away from even the staunchest individualists to drift as debris through vacuous space. I have never been 'a person.'
As for the main purpose of those last entries recollections, it's understood now the place that person had in each of them; a steady flow from one end of the pool to the other. Detachment. The Machine serves to detach one from all that exists; everyone and every manner of thing; to hide the dreamer child away from all reality's shrapnel; all too late. No Machine or mechanism can create a shield to protect a being that commits such masochism such as to drive the very baned spikes into it's own flesh. Attempting to hide and destroy oneself with the ideals of 'understanding' is a flawed concept at best. Perhaps, more than any other singular attributable reason the machine has failed. Completely. Gears rust; gaskets are sprung, fuel leaks, the most essential mechanisms become discorded and out of sync.
Focus is no longer an option.
Now-
All that is left-
-----------------Is hope.
Hope for what could be-
-----------------For what is left.
What is left . . .
Everyday, it's as if everything is dying. Time breaks down. Life continues to broadcast messages; always seeming to grow louder. Perhaps this is due to my own thoughts. Meaning is not absolution; it is perception. Perhaps these things only have meaning because a brain says it does; rendering all purpose meaningless.
-And yet-
How do these themes continually pattern themselves out?
Unfalteringly.
Almost predictably.
Is this something the mind has created? Or is there more . . .
More and more; what is learned- People are never to be idealized. I will not be happy with anyone; growth comes from within. Continuously having been let down by person after person, and more importantly letting myself down because of them; and from there becoming unreliable, faltered; broken. There is no superiority, but there are levels of degradation. Choosing a lesser level is sometimes all one can do; but better to sway the oncoming breakdown than to merely open one's arms with acceptance.
Perhaps-
Of there is a soul-
It dies with each successive action that creates destruction.
Fading - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Maybe this is why people seem so lost; then again it's possible the mind uses them as a mirror to see oneself.
Is the desire to love destructive? Or is this part of the 'beauty of being human'? Through searching, all that's has been accomplished has been a loss of self; of confidence. Is watching so many drift out of reach a sign to be bitter; or to be courageous and idealistic as to not do the same? Again; is this all perception?
I recall the months I was depressed. The times roommates would come home to find me in a corner sobbing; or locked in the bathroom; or blood everywhere _-`-_
I hate myself; I hate my incessant loneliness; and feeling as if I'm not good enough for anyone.
This shouldn't be about people; life is too short for waiting.
And here I am; afraid of myself.
Is my detachment from 'reality' chemical; psychological; supernatural?
There have been short periods in my life; little bubbles wherein exists a state where all sense of space and logic was aborted. As a child of around 6ish; this was the first incident. I tied around my wrist a piece of yarn, which I was then compelled to tie to my dresser. However; it was dictated that I must still sleep in my bed, which left me lying there, hand outstretched as I lay there, string pulled taught between it's anchor point on the dresser and my awkward position on the bed. As it was so long ago, the reasoning behind this was unclear. The second came a few years later. I remember waking in the middle of the night, fully awake and again not; like living a dream. Silence proved to be an awful mistress, radiating such terrible unsounds like the pulse of a wicked heart. At that time; I became convinced that a vacuum existed outside the walls of the house, and that the air was leaking steadily out. I wandered absent of any real sense trying to 'fix' the problem. Feeling as if the answer was in the basement but never daring to go down there; where wicked things waited. I can't honestly remember when that ended. My eyes are watering.
The last time was in junior high; not quite as late as the last. Again, the sound of silence fills me with terror, all reality lost. It's hard to move, thoughts are think and unorganized. I'm wandering, trying to find the solution as to what needs to be done with my blanket. It's 'wrong'. I try the basement, leaving it down there, and return to bed. It doesn't work. The blanket is still 'wrong', I can feel it even upstairs in my room. Retrieving it I again search for a suitable location. The sheer lack of . . . Sense in these states is what hurts the worst. Finally, I manage to overcome it. Even today, certain rhythyms (Ceiling fans in restaurants) set that pulsing in my mind. Of everything considered, these few times are the ones that seem to have best perverted the concreteness of reality.
The pulsing never stops. It just grows dim.
I'm standing at home; I live with my mother, and am 17ish. I have a knife in my hand, I'm clicking it in and out. Mother walks out of her room, stops, looks at me. I turn, the knife clicks out, and we both look at it. My arm . . . moves without my consent, holding the knife out toward her; at her. That non-sound hums in my head, and for several long seconds there's just emptiness. And it's gone. She says a few shocked and angry few words, and that's that-
What happened?
Again. After I leave home, am living with Sean and his mom. I forget the cumulation, but the knife clicks out, and my hand reaches over and cuts Sean's leg. He just sits there; in shock, and then yells-
What happened?
After I return from Japan. The beginning of the breakdown; my Machine's malfunction. Months spent in silence; burrowing into my brain, leaving hollows that resound in the unsound; hours spent sobbing, that serrated knife tearing into flesh. My flesh. Why don't I think of it as -my- skin? And staring; unerring parade of thoughts making me into meat; into a soulless, hateful, empty machine. Let it end. If a being cannot function as part of it's species, then it should not be.
That cool evening after Dustin leaves and I intend to end my life; and the false sense of peace.
And now. Where am I now?
-----------------------
No more loss of control.
No more thoughts of suicide.
No more ideals of happily ever after.
No more androgyny; that sweet un-attraction towards people.
I am still me. This me is different from the old ones. It has comfort (Solace) with the old selves. All threads in the same tapestry, no one standing out more than another.
Casually, I wonder; "Can I be loved?"
I don't think so- But it's okay. Life pushes on.
I'm just another person. Who I was can't exist as I am now.
Tears stream outward, filled by everything (Hate, Love, Joy, Sorrow, Defeat, Grace, uncertainty) and seep into hollow bones to mold. More than anything. I feel (Haunted) solace.
Days I walk to work, and fleeting, I hear my name whispered. Always the same; since I was younger. It might all be a little mind game. Maybe I'm less than sane.
It makes one wonder about life; is reality really a dead inevitability? Or is it a facade like the so many faces I created; and sometimes just for a few seconds it loses it's own ability to project hopelessness; revealing instead something more cosmic.
Cosmically . . . Out there, in here- Maybe there is a niche for me. I'll make one for myself; thought I'll always wonder-
'Could I be with you?'
-Z-