“I’m like miles of gold and silver” they said.

I find myself in the absolute worst places around 5am. And thus minds completely wonder why people who perform all the time take their own lives when piles after piles of things begin to fall and stagger. It’s a wavering cost right in front of your face, and it pulls at you from the direct underbelly of the weight that cements itself to you all at once. The frailty of falling, over and over again – and the magnitude of wires that you wrap around your face just so that you can feel something else for a fraction of a moment. You let it take you somewhere, and then you let it be a prelude to any type of resolution that you just fucking may be able to grab a hold of. Just for one god damn minute.

Sometimes I can barely breathe. For whatever it is out there, the bulleting vulnerability that it feeds. It is a reckoning, harsh place that forces you to bury your elbows into gravel as you are being dragged backwards into what becomes the futility of not throwing yourself through a welcomed clouded window pane.

And to be trapped between walls. May as well be trapped inside of them. At least then you could press your hands tightly into the supports so they may give you some, or ‘any’ type of founded lead. Instead you just yell at yourself. Distract. Watch that meter fill up and drain right out since all of the holes are still just sitting there. I guess it’s easier for some, maybe you don’t feel it. Maybe you are programmed to remind yourself that “this is how things are suppose to be”. I get it. I just don’t buy it. And I refuse to start now.

I honestly don’t blame anyone, or anything. I detest a shit ton of human behavior mostly. But we are all aware of that, and only sometimes people are willing to demand more from it. Don’t demand it, just lay there and have it all sewn up inside of you so that it becomes your norm, and your new ‘happy’ narrative – “hey I’m all fixed, right?”. Let it guide you on to finding whatever it is that devoured you before, because it knows “how” to feed you anyway. It sure the fuck does. Always.

And I’m here. And I sure as fuck do not like today. And I probably won’t like tomorrow. And I will feel everything ten times more than everyone else, since its how I’m wired. And some just don’t get it, or maybe they just don’t find the necessity of “getting it”. And that’s fine.

Just go fucking ahead and smile. And please, please, fucking mean it for once.

Killing oneself is, anyway, a misnomer. We don’t kill ourselves. We are simply defeated by the long, hard struggle to stay alive. When somebody dies after a long illness, people are apt to say, with a note of approval, “He fought so hard.” And they are inclined to think, about a suicide, that no fight was involved, that somebody simply gave up. This is quite wrong. Shoot the Damn Dog: A Memoir of Depression

You say you’re ‘depressed’ – all i see is resilience. You are allowed to feel messed up and inside out. It doesn’t mean you’re defective – it just means you’re human. – Cloud Atlas

Finding air when the heart spins.

Note 1325
Be surprised at what kinds of things you can screenplay in your head. We are our own worst narrators.

Note 976
I left there thinking whole heartedly that I was strong as a bull, storming forward through timbers one hundred feet tall. It wasn’t until later when our minds began to subtitle the projections overhead that I began to realize the magnitude of the forseeable drowning. It was an insurmountable attack that left me staring aimlessly and defeated. I’d realized that my own stories became the deafening hum that kept me paralyzed.

“Certain events, which have actually happened, are horrible, but what is more horrible still is what hasn’t happened, what has never existed.” – Solaris, 1970

Panic // Going over to the enemy of our imagination.

enough_AFE

Sometimes I sit in my car in front of my apartment watching rain break across the glass. The sound is repairing. I may even get lost in it, where I wonder if people think I’m weird for not removing myself from the immediate. It’s a medication like mental floss. It helps me to un feel things that I’ve known, like removing bandages that have long adhered around bound thighs. If it takes me anywhere away from the backsliding, then I tend to lean into it more.

It’s such a dark writhing of backwards composure. It’s your brain in reverse, then forward, then reverse, then slow motion and subtitled – followed by a sinewy commentary to extrapolate any details you may have overlooked. Just to keep telling your insides that you are wrong again. It’s your own horror performance that you cannot shut off. It’s an art of self sabotage that will chip away at the very hope of you being able to reduce your guard to points where you can at least shield off the hailstorm of things replaying in your head. To find yourself grasping for an intermission, a breath, and a lightning bolt of connection that will undoubtedly sever that assembly line of garbage you are lined up to feed yourself in the moments ahead.

Just please undo, that which is done. Wipe those fingerprints away, and begin to peel it the fuck back. Bleach the stain that lingers behind the eyes that you see when you lay down for the fight at 3am. Rewrite the ending and sew underneath it a hand written note that screams “Don’t worry, I’m here – I’m not far…it’s ok”.

Repair, reprogram, rewrite. Find that better ending that you ultimately deserve, and hold on to it with everything you have. Panic, fear and anxiety – are all only temporary, and you are to drown them as furiously as you can.

 

“Gaff had been there, and let her live. Four years, he figured. He was wrong. Tyrell had told me Rachael was special. No termination date. I didn’t know how long we had together… Who does?”  –Deckard, Blade Runner 1982