Mom and dad were on speaker phone. Sophie was with mom. I was in my room feeling guilty as fuck while trying to (unsuccessfully) concentrate on my homework.
My brother, apparently guilt-less, went to take a fucking nap in the middle of the evening. He will then proceed to go out with his friends and return after 12, incidentally the time Sophie falls asleep.
Its been a strange (?) day. I suppose its because I havent slept. College was good..as was the open drawing class. Its something I can look froward to every week.
Who knew happiness could be this tiring? My day was what a normal person would call “good”. I felt good. Until I got in the car to go home. It is mostly just physical tiredness, this state of mind..but of course, with physical tiredness comes weakening of mental defenses.
I think I might go to bed… but of course, I’ll wake up feeling the same way. At least this way, I’m writing.
The sound of moving people now, in this room where you have closed your eyes and chosen, once and for all, to rest. The sound of moving people. Moving closer to your bed, closer even to the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest, the soft ups and downs of your stomach, the barely audible moans, whines, sighs coming from your cocooned shape.
Moving people- yes, them, the movers that came and packed it all away. Wrong address, you told them. Any address would be the wrong one, except all of those, down the road. The older ones, just so slightly weathered.
We are from there – from those weathered houses.
Moving people, shuffling around, breaking the peace. Moving people, their gray faces and forced words that hold no meaning once rolled on their charred tongues and pushed through their blue lips. Moving people, all of them. Moving over your almost lifeless body, moving with the rhythmic rise and fall of your breathing, the ebb and flow of your blood, the barely audible moans, whines, sighs. Moving.
Too much has happened in this room. In this room where you sit reading my words. Too much has happened to you and we cannot all survive in this room, yours only by proximity.
It has the best view of the garden. A view you saw everyday as they fed. A view you never noticed, thrust on your stomach, breathing through (suffocating in) soiled sheets from the day before. Too much has been taken – we cannot all survive.
You dont remember. You do remember. You dont remember. It never happened. You do remember. It keeps on happening. Moments of peace come to find you now, and you fight them off. It was in peace that you gave to them. You can never touch peace again.
You search for empty pages on which to relieve yourself. The sinking heart, the cluttered mind. Outside the window pigeons flutter away, one after the other. You have taken to letting the words pour out of you, with no control. It doesnt work. There is only so much you can write before you have to write the truth.
You remember words (not yours)
stolen feelings – cliches
You scribble down a thought
or two
and call it
poetry
There are only
so many
ways to say
you are in pain;
beyond that,
pain ceases to be;
it becomes the room
in which you live -
the room in which
too much has happened;
even the jewelry box
holds your gem,
the uneven folds of your bedsheet
cradle it,
and the vacant chair is warm
with its heat.
The power of my eyes will diminish as I write this, in the dark, by the soft blue light of a mobile phone (new-age candles). But the pain is too great, and there are too many thoughts. Before something breaks (before I break) I must let go, write, speak, create something of the pathetic excuse of a life I have. I must make something of my anguish, let it not be in vain. Let the struggle not be forgotten, underestimated. That is what its all about, isnt it? Self-preservation, self-recognition, self- retribution, chastisement in some cases. Art is narcissistic. I am, fundamentally, narcissistic. I help because I know what it is to not be helped, worried over, thought of. I help to redeem myself as more than what I think myself to be. To try and be better than I am, better than I can be. To, in some ways, not be me at all, in some ways not be human at all. To not want or need or desire, to simply love, live, breathe as though it were easy, as though it is easy to feel each moment, cherish each moment. As if it is bliss living in sweet pain, reminiscent pain. Cultivated pain. Sometimes remembrance is not enough, and forgiveness is impossible. And the only peace comes from knowing you get what you deserve, knowing you are suffocating, dying and have been so for years now. Knowing life can only be cherished when death is near. An idea you hold close to your heart. That joy can only be felt with despair. And happiness does not exist. There are no “happily ever afters”, and the wicked step mother always wins. There is always betrayal, abandonment, confusion, pain. There is always pain.
Dear fucktard,
I do not want to visit your baby. I dont want to congratulate you. Basically, all I’ve got to say with regard to you is FUCK OFF!
That, and get the fuck out of my family’s “circle”.
Thankfully never yours,
Me.
It begins with slight discomfort, nearing pain. Just not quite.
Imperceptible little aches that plague your being; a twisted elbow, ankle, knee. Headache, muscle ache, back ache. All imperceptible, inconsequential discomfort. Nothing you pay attention to aside from the tightness of chest, difficulty breathing. The weight of the world presses down on your chest and soon your ribs will collapse, pierce through your lungs. Even still, the pain will be unworthy of notice, as it always is.
Who will be able to see, when all is said, broken, thrown away, the fractured pieces of your human structure? It is all under skin, and it is thick skin that you have, molded like putty. You can squeeze yourself through cracks, fill in the gaps, read people, complete their sentences and never really know them, but know yourself enough to know them.
I complete people’s sentences. Often. Most often I am correct. I guess at things and have the audacity to voice wild guesses, believe in them and even convince myself of their validity. I have reasons. What reasons? I do not know. Pretension.
Smarts count for nothing. I am not smart. I am not talented. I am a poser. I am inadequate. The dreams of being “great”, being more than myself are simply dreams. When push comes to shove, I’ve got nothing to give. Its much easier believing I have been restricted than believing this is the limit of my productivity. Of my growth. It is much easier thinking I did not apply myself, and in fact not applying myself, than to give it my all and at long last prove I am not good enough. I’ve got nothing to give. No greatness. Innovation. Wisdom. I am an empty vessel – sealed. I am a pointless hollow.
I havent written anything in ages. Not because I am short of inspiration, but because I havent tried. I have no time, no energy, no will to try and write. Well, I do have the will. Just not anything else.
I have written a lot, come to think of it. Just nothing that warrants a read. I dont remember more than half of it.
My head is killing me. I feel nauseous and physically uncomfortable but this is the only time I’ve got to do my work…which I have put off for too long. I am 75% done with an assignment. The other 6 are no where near started.
*sigh*
The bright side is its only tuesday.
The not so bright side is I never get work done over weekends.
Relief comes after midnight, when she is asleep. Does it make me a bad person to think of relief as her absence? It probably does. I am a bad person then.
Since dad left (i.e yesterday) she has taken to acting like devil spawn. Harsh? Maybe. I’m tired.
She’s angry with dad.
Its really no wonder she throws tantrums when mom and dad are together. Shes rarely had both parents at the same time.
I dont want to have kids when I grow up. Selfish? Maybe. Merciful, in part. All parents hurt their children. Thats how the relationship goes. Sometimes we hurt them, sometimes we dont have the chance to. Sometimes their guilt hurts them more than we ever could know. They are human, after all. So sometimes we forgive them.
I wonder how I will hurt her as she grows into herself. What character flaw, weakness, “issue” of mine will tear at our relationship. How she will be convinced I do not love her, mom does not love her, dad does not love her. How we will grow apart, carried away on different sides of a geographical fault as the earth’s plates move, filling up the void with water. Water, innocuous, ominous at the same time.
Strength, in this case, is hardly a consolation.
I love you, baby sister.
I stare at an unplayed piano in my room – the cliched symbol of unpursued or unpursuable ambitions. The imagined notes played (to Chopin’s Nocturne) fade to the soft tick-tick-tick of a powerless insect trying to make its way to the light through the lampshade. There are holes leading in on either side – but we are not all-knowing, and the path we are set on is seldom altered.
I realize now why most journals are written on un-lined paper. I have transcended the boundaries, grown past the lines on this page. My words are no longer contained and my wander across this plane as they please. The quick sketches I mark with this pencil are enough to convey meaning. We do not need perfection here – life seldom is perfect. This is raw reality; imperfection, illegibility, confusion, chaos. There are no rules to our world. Even Newton’s laws of motion have been partly disproved by Einstein’s theory of relativity. There is no certainty where we’re at. I can only promise you a Today. Tomorrow the world may take me; and the why’s of loss would be useless to you.
I wonder sometimes what it would be like to be in Beethoven’s head. Did he think to himself in music the way I do in words? Did he listen to the sound of water running down the drain, the sound of cars, or chariots in those days, fading as they go down the street? Did he listen to, in moments of peace, the sound of stillness? Is there ever stillness? Will there ever be peace?
Fidgeting. There is much to do. She sends us pictures of her daughters, every once in a while. A small gesture. The personal way to say “I think of you”, a thoughtful click. Her daughters are beautiful, as all children are, because of the very fact that they are children. I don’t know their names.
I can sit here, writing gibberish as the seconds trickle away. Do nothing with my life – not live it, not cherish it. I can sit here writing gibberish till my body is petrified to a dry crust and leave no record of ever having had a soul.
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