Word Vomit

February 15, 2010

I am a part of everything, and everything is a part of me. Every smile, every cloud, every rock, every plant, every living thing that has ever or ever will exist on Earth shares common heritage with me, with you. We’re of the same cloth, sewn together with common thread, interdependent in a way that we can scarcely fathom. We exist in unison because none of us could exist alone. Don’t fall into your own hype with that batshit stupid lie of independence being desirable, or even possible – if you thought about it, you’d see how ridiculous that is. How can you even claim to support yourself when your air, water, soil came from the world that nurtures you? We are still children, the human race. Bad children in some ways, defiling our home, abusing our siblings. The world that supports us, our loving mother, is too kind to punish us directly, letting us instead come to our logical end, but that doesn’t give us right to act as we do, so callous, so stupidly, without responsibility for ourselves or our world.

We’re so solitary that it makes me scream.

I haven’t the voice to scream much longer.

This is my last gasp.

I’m falling from grace, grasping at the beautiful dream, struggling to pick up the shattered pieces, to fit them back together. It’s no use – I’ve lost the picture, can’t even remember what it was that drew me in in the first place. Nothing left to do but sweep it all into a pile and bin the whole mess. Start over. That’ll help – no use clinging to what was, what might have been. I pretend not to be sentimental, but that doesn’t stop me from slipping one glinting shard into my pocket and carrying on as if nothing has happened. I’m not so stupid as to abandon my own memories, my past. Later, in my room, in the dark, I take the piece out, run my fingers over the edges, trace the small lines and imperfections. There are so many lines, so many imperfections – the flaws are what make this life and not an image of the same.

The edges are sharp.

I cut my finger on the bitter one.

The bleeding lets me know I still live.

Sucking my finger I hobble to the sink, throw open the cabinet – need to staunch this flow, it will only weaken me if I let it all out. I must keep some of this in. Christ, where is a towel? And what happened to that piece of memory I was playing with? Cut forgotten, I have to find that shard of my past! I’m digging frantically through the bed, through my messy filthy present. It’s gone, no matter how I look, and now I’m stumbling drunken back to the bathroom, collapsing at the toilet, spilling my guts to the porcelain god. Purging myself of everything, of all of it. Every fond memory, every small hope, all the heartbreak, the joy, the anger and fear. There She went too, down into the dirty white bowl. I can’t keep it in, can’t hold onto it any longer.

It ends now.

Everything must end.

Yet nothing truly does.

How could I have been so stupid? What was I thinking, trying to run away from myself, from the life I led, from the entire human condition? What an idiot! And aren’t I even worse now, trying to avoid it at the end of all? At least when this started I didn’t know it had to come full circle! Now, knowing beyond certainty, with the dates and destinations carved oracle-like into stony future, I’m just being pathetic. Of course it’s all gone. Of course I can’t remember the brilliant bits. Why would I think myself that special? I’m not – if I’ve learned anything from this it is that I am, you are, we all are nothing special, nothing to write home about, all the same. That doesn’t make me any less likely to do so, to marvel at insignificant and trivial, to fall in love with us, with you, with her and her and also her. Does it make me crazy or a genius to keep hoping, keep pretending, keep living as if this actually matters? No, it just makes me human – self-delusion is essential to surviving the human condition.

We hope to keep from cutting our own throats.

I hope it won’t be too late before I get there.

She’s hoping she won’t be later then she already is.

If I sit here and try to think rationally, calmly, orderly, I freak the fuck out. Chills up the spine, sweating, biting my lip as I fight to ride out the stormy seas of terror I’ve been heaved into. A job, a “normal life”, a steady, regular existence… I’d rather get my teeth knocked in. I don’t desire it, that life – it’s too sterile, too artificial, too saccharine for me. I’d rather go live in a hut somewhere, work the fields, hitchhike and walk my way across the planet, go from place to place on foot with nothing then have the largest mansion, the biggest staff, the richest and most powerful friends. The moral bankruptcy and hopelessness of life like that disgusts me. I’ll vomit it all up, the fakeness, life in plastic. People are afraid to do or say what they really want because of how it might be perceived, and how it might hurt them later. “How will the boss, the neighbors, the PTO, the bourgeois pencil pushers see me?” outweighs what truly satisfies, robs life of joy. Yes, they might judge you, but who cares?

As if they all didn’t wish they could do the same.
They would if they could.

They would if they weren’t stupid with fear.

I tried to escape it, still am fighting, and yet now I’m going right back into the belly of the beast, the center of self-aggrandizing, mental masturbation, and voracious consumption. If you think I’m going to settle down, settle in, tune out, well then you don’t know me quite well enough. I’ll fight as best I can, not against their bullshit or their rules, but for my own survival – I can’t live like that again. It’s not some dramatic pledge, just the realization that I was dying before when I thought I was living, and I’ll die in inches if I try again. To live my own way isn’t some sort of choice any longer – compromising values deep held is betrayal of the self – and really it never was. It’s just that I didn’t realize it before, too wrapped as I was in what I thought was important. I never lived, just died my way through life.

One inch at a time, I slowly die.

Every joy denied.

Each desire unsatisfied.

I wipe my mouth, sit back on my heels. The worst is past, the bleeding slowed. I’ll be ok. Thank whoever, I’ll get through this. I didn’t lose the good bits anyway, just shared some of my insides. I can afford to share those, even if it is just with the toilet. Stumble back to the room, and I realize now I haven’t lost anything – it isn’t really possible. Sure, I can’t look back on it and chart day by triumph by joy by ecstasy by laugh; but that’s not worth two shits except as a nice story to tell people. I can’t carry this life with me, don’t have a printed list, but I have it with me always in the way that I exist. The things I do, the thoughts I have, the very breaths I take are part of it – going back isn’t going back at all – at least, not in the sense that I’ll be headed back to the life I left there. Sure, I’ll be in the same places, the same spaces, the same groups and family and ties, but that doesn’t mean I’ll possibly be the same me that I was then!

It won’t be easy.

Was it ever?

I just hid it better then.


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