||[Dec. 18th, 2008|09:56 pm]
I was going to do any number of things. But I think instead I will scrape around in this mess of a heart and try to draw some blood.|
Ah no that's too morbid I think, and there is a part of me that mutters "no one really cares about your psychoses anyhow" but I suppose I am at a point where I don't care about what folks care about.
That's wrong. I do intensely care. But others' lack of interest, or derision, or condemnation in regards to my self expression is simply a symptom, not the disease: the desire, the nameless impulse towards self immolation, expression, whatever.
I do it out of compulsion, selfishly rapping away at the letters like masturbation without climax, simply building to some deeper pleasure- the unlocking of the meager word horde, the ejaculate neverending- the endless promise of mounting orgasm that is fed with this, the promise of death; yes, because words being what they are mock my own decay as they simply recontextualize, mock my own impermanence with their naivete revealed at the next days glance.
But for now, they are all I have, words about nothing, and I love them for being nothing.
I could tell you how I fear that I am a failure at love as both a child and a man, I could tell you that I am making the preparations for a year of rebirth and ascension, I could tell you about endless drives and the signs I passed.
But all this is nothing to me now, now here with my nothing as comfort from nothing that I am fearful that I am.
Nothing to me now. I tell myself this too often.
Throw myself into it, climb the weather vanes in a lightning storm. I can take it all, do more than take it. All that should have killed me I have held and molded, eaten and shit out- lived to tell the tale, as it were, the only reason I lived: for the telling.
So the question dawns: Why the obsession with rhetoric? Why the nameless guilt? Why the inability to confess my naked desires to the world?
If this is the why, then why not? Why not scrape it right to the bone?
Why not just spill out the real and let the meanings reveal themselves?
because I am hurting. And defensive, like a bleeding dog snarling out existential excuses at the side of the road. And I have been. And I am ashamed but it is true that this hurt makes me weak. I allow myself the luxury of weakness. Because I am terrified of what I would do with strength touched by hurt or bitterness, of what I already do when I take what I want.
I have to want something a great deal to climb over all this mess, but lord what clarity gifted by true desire.
And how fantastic the clarity of pain when desire betrays.
I am so obsessed with chasing my tails and love because I am fucked and I want someone to fix me. I want mom to make it better. I want a muse and a child to jump on my tired stomach at the end of the day crying "Paint Me, Build Me a House, Wreck my car and DO YOUR WORST and buy me everything and throw it in a lake so we can have second thoughts and swim down naked to find it all later in the belly of the whale"
I am down to throw myself into a relationship because for some reason I am still deluded enough to think one can save me.
And I know, what all you column readers and cosmo quizzers and junior psychiatrists will say:
Oh you are a child Nicholas, you must self actualize before you can enter a healthy relationship, no one should have to be your mother and no one should shoulder the burden of being an inspiration and BULLSHIT.
I don't do many healthy things or many things healthily and last I checked life itself was a mess that kills you. If I earn everything on my own with no one to share it with then what is the point of everything anyways; if no one would fight beside me while I earned my imitation throne then why the fuck would I share it; the joy of nurturing and inspiring are two of the purest things available to human beings and I most dearly want some of that drug for myself as ready as I am to receive it.
Context. It's all about context. A sleazy leer, a smoldering gaze.
Contradictions. Feverish swinging of the torch against the flickering diamonds in the dark, gleaming teeth phantasmal. If I believed in god I would pray instead of this, and I would plead and threaten and beg and smother his love in the way I do all else.