Sunday, December 18, 2005
the air was that perfect kind of cold and the sky that perfect kind of blue. i walked downtown on a sunday afternoon for no reason other than to walk. i've made the dark corners of coffee shops my haunts once again, spending hours skulking and pouring over my books and imagining new personalities for myself.
i keep staring at blank paper. my restless hands tapping Morse Code onto dirty tables. the pens have all grown eyes and they watch with disdain and malevolence at my own personal failure to create. anything. at all. if i could write i would write because it hurts. because the words slice me open like a gutted fish but just as swiftly force the torn flesh to renew. renew. renew.
(if i could write i would write a manifesto of hope for you. i would clutch smudged manuscripts to my chest and kiss my brilliant fucking fingers for their service and i would pour those words down your open throat like a cool drink.)
aside from all that, christmas is coming. holiday cheer and festive boozing spread like infectious disease and i feel like i'm outside, watching all the goodtimey-warmth through the window. the other night, i sat on one end of the couch while iain was stretched out sleeping, his feet on my lap, twitching, while the wind tapped its bony fingers along the window pane. i was reading A Million Little Pieces by james frey. and he was sleeping unsoundly. and the wind. tapping. suddenly there was music. a party and a group of people upstairs singing christmas carols. they sang and i read and he slept and the wind tapped.
joy to the world
and i read about smoking crack and drug addiction and he shifts uncomfortably.
silent night, holy night
the ghosts of the crack are howling like wolves and the filth and the Fury and vomiting up blood and bile and chunks of stomach. and the wind. the tapping.
and him beside me, filled to the brim with the worst kinds of fucking poisons because it's the only way. sick and getting sicker. the only way.
and with christmas carols droning all around us.
now if that's not yuletide cheer, then i don't know what is.
(and for the record, that saying: whatever doesn't kill you can only make you stronger. that's absolute bullshit. a lot of the time, things don't kill you, but they break you down physically and spiritually. they eat your fucking soul and they leave you empty.)
because it's love that makes you stronger. not pain.
it's love.
i keep staring at blank paper. my restless hands tapping Morse Code onto dirty tables. the pens have all grown eyes and they watch with disdain and malevolence at my own personal failure to create. anything. at all. if i could write i would write because it hurts. because the words slice me open like a gutted fish but just as swiftly force the torn flesh to renew. renew. renew.
(if i could write i would write a manifesto of hope for you. i would clutch smudged manuscripts to my chest and kiss my brilliant fucking fingers for their service and i would pour those words down your open throat like a cool drink.)
aside from all that, christmas is coming. holiday cheer and festive boozing spread like infectious disease and i feel like i'm outside, watching all the goodtimey-warmth through the window. the other night, i sat on one end of the couch while iain was stretched out sleeping, his feet on my lap, twitching, while the wind tapped its bony fingers along the window pane. i was reading A Million Little Pieces by james frey. and he was sleeping unsoundly. and the wind. tapping. suddenly there was music. a party and a group of people upstairs singing christmas carols. they sang and i read and he slept and the wind tapped.
joy to the world
and i read about smoking crack and drug addiction and he shifts uncomfortably.
silent night, holy night
the ghosts of the crack are howling like wolves and the filth and the Fury and vomiting up blood and bile and chunks of stomach. and the wind. the tapping.
and him beside me, filled to the brim with the worst kinds of fucking poisons because it's the only way. sick and getting sicker. the only way.
and with christmas carols droning all around us.
now if that's not yuletide cheer, then i don't know what is.
(and for the record, that saying: whatever doesn't kill you can only make you stronger. that's absolute bullshit. a lot of the time, things don't kill you, but they break you down physically and spiritually. they eat your fucking soul and they leave you empty.)
because it's love that makes you stronger. not pain.
it's love.
Monday, December 12, 2005
keep talking.
keep talking.
keep talking.
keep looking up.
keep moving forward.
keep your chin up.
keep your hopes high.
keep on believing.
keep on pretending.
keep laughing.
keep talking.
keep talking.
keep talking.
there is only this life. and there is nothing. there is only this life and it's bearing down like a plane about to crash like a head-on collision like a freight train. high speed wreckage that you can see and hear for fucking miles. there is only this life and there is nothing.
i open my eyes and i can no longer see. you scream and my ears ring hollowly. my senses are stopped. wadded up with bits of soft cotton, dead leaves and the bits of string that cling to all the hairs. the hairs stand up on my arms. i pull out handfuls every morning. sympathetic reaction? perhaps.
keep talking.
keep talking.
keep talking.
keep making plans you'll forget.
keep making promises you don't mean.
keep hoping.
keep trying.
keep asking yourself the same questions.
keep looking for the silver lining
and keep talking.
never stop talking. the silence will crush frail bodies like an anvil dropped from the sky. ribcages swing open like old oak doors on rusty hinges. and then that smell. warm and thick and acrid. earthy like moss and sour like decaying fruit. it was good but now it's spoiled. it was good but now it's spoiled. it was good.
spoiled.
spoiled.
spoiled.
keep talking.
keep talking.
keep looking up.
keep moving forward.
keep your chin up.
keep your hopes high.
keep on believing.
keep on pretending.
keep laughing.
keep talking.
keep talking.
keep talking.
there is only this life. and there is nothing. there is only this life and it's bearing down like a plane about to crash like a head-on collision like a freight train. high speed wreckage that you can see and hear for fucking miles. there is only this life and there is nothing.
i open my eyes and i can no longer see. you scream and my ears ring hollowly. my senses are stopped. wadded up with bits of soft cotton, dead leaves and the bits of string that cling to all the hairs. the hairs stand up on my arms. i pull out handfuls every morning. sympathetic reaction? perhaps.
keep talking.
keep talking.
keep talking.
keep making plans you'll forget.
keep making promises you don't mean.
keep hoping.
keep trying.
keep asking yourself the same questions.
keep looking for the silver lining
and keep talking.
never stop talking. the silence will crush frail bodies like an anvil dropped from the sky. ribcages swing open like old oak doors on rusty hinges. and then that smell. warm and thick and acrid. earthy like moss and sour like decaying fruit. it was good but now it's spoiled. it was good but now it's spoiled. it was good.
spoiled.
spoiled.
spoiled.
