A room keyed for everyone, but you.

Note 1176
I yelled through the glass until everything began to drive in slow motion. I have no idea how that story crept upon me, but it closed off every crevice that I attempted to retreat into. People change on a whim while outside forces chisel away with a constant showering of mental debris that ultimately becomes what you thought were stepping-stones in directions that might cling unto stronger merits. It adheres like wet sand, and weighs down the attempts to find any reason, any footnote that could foretell some point of direction that you were headed. You will never know that magnitude. It sews my insides into a thousand knots, each one a pulsing reminder of how it feels to be kept outside of a crowded room. A room keyed for everyone, but you.

And then it all comes spinning down, the awards will be handed out two-fold. For someone who really won’t survive half as long as you did. It will be hollow and transparent. The cardboard walls will dampen and be flung to and fro. It won’t matter, and it will draw all to gray. People will look for you in them, and they will feel lost. Then and only then, will the spiderwebbing synapses of thoughts play out and write the story that you would “want to believe” was going to happen. The one that had already happened, you were just too entangled into believing how you wished people wouldn’t see it for what it was, and only being succumbed to what was really streaming right in front of you. It was real. More tangible then you’ll ever feel. And it slips away just as easy.

It’s written above your head, only you can’t see it. It’s tattooed under your skin, only you can’t feel it. It makes the timbering of your heart rattle when you breathe, leaving you shaken, and tired, and empty. And you will allow it to drag you behind the curtain one more time, until it spins you disarrayed back through piles of your own curtailed decisions. Decisions that now become an undertow over and over, spray painted upon the very direction that you walk. And those new stones will shoulder you repeatedly until your bruises all begin to bleed.

It’s gutting. Like meaty ropes growing out of your sides. Stumbling, with feeble ankles rallying across the grain of the floor. It’s hoping that you find that hearth, in something – anything. It’s being lost, surrounded by arms and you being blind to the touch. I leave it, pulling at my head. I lay there letting the minutes bullet across my face. They stitch me to the floor as I talk the rain into just drowning me out. Drowning me out loudly so that I can crawl under the covering of sleep, again.

 

“You own everything that has happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” -Anne Lamont

 

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Insides Out

Getting towards the end of a year, bulldozing through the days the best that I can. I have seen over the last 8 days a piece of my insides change, or warp. I don’t mean that literally, but I feel that something is different. Callous maybe, exhaustion, a worn through sense. It’s funny how sometimes one word (or lack of one) can change ones world, or snuff out another’s. Had I not had a feeling in my gut for the last 4 years, about a direction, a heart and a life, when you just feel like something in your world will change, if I had not had those drives – then I guess I would not be feeling them swerve against the guard rail. And as it dims, I don’t feel any lack of sincerity, but rather a lack of  even wanting to go to war. Why fight a fight that I could never win. A storybook ending that never existed, even when my heart said that “if you believe in it, it can happen – there are reasons that your heart pulls you in the directions that it does”.

But sometimes their really are none. No reward behind door number three. That it was just in your head all along. Waking up in the middle of the night thinking you heard a knock outside your door, a reason to keep that torch lit, it’s not there and it never really was.

I call it a fault. My fault. Or a defect. Has to be. Even as it fades, could you really have been that wrong all along? All these years, when you would have bet your life on the latter (even before a night of intoxication, you’d still bet your life).

But looking from the outside through glass walls, a soldier ant scurrying in the frenzy of work, alongside an underlying master plan that housed a queen that really never existed – that ant indeed would have had to have been crazy.

A lunacy in one sense, a fanatic in the other, hopeless believer in a hard stream of feelings that would yield a great life one day. All there, all working tirelessly to wipe all of the pasts bullshit away, and know that if it took all of this, to finally close the deal – that it would have seemed worth it. No questions, no old fights, just a new reel, and a time for the ‘old’ credits to roll.

I’ve written so many things on the wall. I’ve woken up thinking that this day will be different. I’ve followed every bit of my insides, even when my head knew better. To rally on in the defense of true love, that it undeniably is – unstoppable.

Those eyes just never lied to me. That mouth may have bitten my face off numerous times, but you know I never saw a sliver of emotion that wasn’t echoed sincerely behind that face.

So I sit here and do nothing now. I listen to my clock tick. Until I have to drown my face in that air, that air that I used to depend on to carry me and my momentum along through those nights.

– excerpt from the chapter ‘Insides Out’ of my book titled “Damselfly“.

Eyes like static

A few years ago I started working on writing some fiction works, based on things that I had experienced, set entirely in a futuristic environment, tentatively entitled Damselfly. Mainly well, because I am a science fiction geek mostly, and I can relate more to that than real life stuff usually. So I’ve been carrying around a handwritten leather journal for years now, late nights I would jot things down, sometimes I would wake up and write stuff and totally not remember doing it the next day.

For a lot of the scene settings I would listen to music first, and then write the imagery for it. As if I was writing a movie based on the soundtrack that was playing. Upon reflection I discovered that’s what I am doing presently with AFE, and realized that both of my last solo creative outlets have seemed to be blurring and crossing lines somehow. How I managed to blindly start working in two separate forms of media to come across and make the same point I have no idea. Maybe subconsciously my brain is telling me these are things I need to do, whether it’s writing them, or singing them, that I need to get out there and do it. I guess it only matters is that one person could eventually get it, and if I make that connection however far away, wherever, whenever…than it should be worth it. In the end. Someone once said “The most important thing to man is that when we lived, we mattered to at least just one person“.  And I’d call that a successful life. Right?

Either way, the outlets start to form a labyrinth sometimes, and I get tired of trying to figure out what to do next when I know I should just keep exploring forward headstrong. The things that are missing shouldnt be the most important things, but more so the things that are there. On text that speaks volumes, but unfortunately it does not always translate well IRL.

I intend on posting some unedited parts of  my novel Damselfy soon here, so stick around for that.