And the city’s feeling queer and crass
With beer cans growing blades of grass
To look like something new
I have been writing more lately. It feels like aimless wandering through thoughts mostly. I have also grown closer to the bottle. I suppose they go hand in hand, writing and the spirits; pain and poison. I told myself I’d write every day because it is a reminder than beneath my beneath my broken heart and calloused hands there is still some beauty, I can still feel; I am still here.
I’ve been pushing hard physically in an attempt to stoke the fire, swimming so I deprive myself of oxygen to the point where carpal pedal spasms say their cramped hello. The pain recoils me and my will to endure is tested but there can be no enlightenment without hammering out the dross. I think most people stop short of walking through the fire, most will never attempt the crucible let alone seek it out regularly. I cling to the edge of the pool deck cursing my burning lungs under my breath, I find ways to drive myself to the edge and live there. I hate it and I love it. It is a sick and probably unhealthy obsession.
I have yet to hear from the Congressman’s rep or the Congressman himself. I’m not giving up but Jesus Christ am I tired. The waiting sucks the life out of you. There have been more days lately that I’m comfortable to admit where my motivation is tested, but that’s normal when you’re left out in the dark for so long, so I tell myself. This is the most important thing in my life and I am so close but still hanging beneath the last few most difficult pitches.
It is insane looking at it from the outside. I have spent my life driving, pushing, and bleeding for the opportunity to live a life of driving, pushing, and bleeding. It is an ideal that I cling to, I hold it close to my chest and believe that having this drive gives me an edge. I grit my teeth at the dispassionate people I meet, I can hardly relate to or stand someone who isn’t willing to live and die for something. I’m an asshole.
I don’t want to deal with this tonight.
My breathing has become a knell. Agony, misery, sorrow, suffering, torment, grief, heartache, woe, affliction, distress, dolor. Alcohol merely palliates my pain for it always and so insidiously floats back up to the surface, but the ligature of who I am and what is bound to go wrong demands some sort of redress. I don’t understand why I feel so much. So much pain, so much love, so much rage; a lifetime of hatred has filled my heart in just a few short years. I push people away because everyone leaves (it’s easier to cut the belay than to hold on) then self-inflict castigation behind locked doors.
This is the cycle. I don’t let people in or cut them off, embrace the life of an outlier, attempt to let someone in and then make sure it doesn’t work; in the end I hate myself and them for it. Tonight I am swimming through my failures, recent and past.
My pain demands salvation or poison, it matters not which.
Tattoos are awesome and whoever deemed them taboo was a real dickhead. That being said, if you have a shitty tramp stamp of tinker bell rising from an ass flower then I’ll probably think you’re and idiot and you’re ruining it for the rest of us.
No conscience, just confidence
Your glue-on smile, your social style
You’re tired, you’re ruled, you’re such a fool
I am twenty-three and I like to think that I’m far from through with my growing pains. I imagine the best version of me is still far off, someone that I have to work continually to become. These are the years of selfish ambition, this is the time to find out what you’re made of and to squander that is sin. Most people are too afraid to work the knife on themselves and sometimes I envy that, I wonder what it would be like to not want to do anything spectacular with my life at all, to merely exist and find myself content assimilating into the crowd.
But there is and will always be a prevailing desire to push hard, harder I believe than most people will ever understand. I am an elitist with nothing to be arrogant about perhaps but someday beating my fists against the wall will mean a breakthrough. If this works out and I want to believe so much that it will, then at least I’ll be able to say that I never sold out, that I held fast amid crushing adversity. Maybe the fact that I don’t want to be recognized for what I intend to do fills me with some misguided sense of pride, seeking the silent glory of better men who have lived and died before me seems more edifying than that of the man who stands in the limelight for all to see. I despise that. If you seek fame and fortune, I despise you. I don’t want to stand in the light, I want to render my deeds in the darkness.
longlivethetribe said: When’s the last time you waxed your legs?
Around the same time as my last desk pop - September 2008.
There are people on FB that I find incredibly obnoxious and just plain dumb as fuck but I can’t bring myself to delete them because talking shit about them breathes new life into my lungs and no matter how bad things get I’ll see their worthless dog shit posts and think “well I’m at least I’m not that person”, and feel 45% better.