“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

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It’s very loud to me, on this side.

SUBWAY // NYC

NYC Subway // Scott Glover // 2012

I woke today, chest weighted and head racing. I dreamed that Kristen and I had moved to Brooklyn NY. I don’t get it. I don’t ask for it. I don’t even visualize things like that consciously much anymore. So I suppose the residual, fingerprints that stay behind tend to find their way to surface in suspicious ways. Or maybe the empath part of me is screaming things to my face.

I could smell the wood and feel the unevenness of the floor. The brushing past door frames of the apartment and seeing the scuff marks along the bottoms with their layers of gray. Scattered shadows dancing across the ceiling while moving a lampshade. The weathering across the stoop, and it’s oddly comforting hearth welcome (we don’t even have those in Texas). The sound of cardboard boxes sliding across a gritted floor.

I wiped the damp snowing off of my face.

It’s penetrating to wake up like this. It’s like wires pulling me across thousands of miles. A stapling of notes to the back of my head. They echo, they ring, and they resonate. It will fuck with me, and linger. As things like this constantly challenge my comfort zone, rattling any kind of idling that I have. It makes me add up everything that I have seen in life and ask myself “is this all you ever want to see?”. And my answer is always and absolutely, definitely, “no”.

She‘s been gone for sometime now. I tiptoe around the haziness of what was, and what it leaves behind. I somehow forgot the way she smells. Or maybe I distanced it away, hoping that it’s absence would make finding it again that much more exorbitant.

I do know that I fully worry about this winter ahead. And what it brings. My thanksgiving, Xmas, and new years will be finding their way into the stitches of course. It’s all part of it, a never-ceasing storm when you feel everything too much.

And at the end of the day, please just fucking put me on that plane.

Working through the seasons. Pressed up against the ceiling. Pushing down on me. – The XX, Lips

It likes you because you feed it.

Note 1256
A lot of shows in a row makes me ache but I’d rather have that soreness than the other types. It’s easier when I don’t have to count the disasters but more so the ones avoided (I count them on my free hand now). I’m tired a lot, constantly. I carry a shit ton inside and I’ve decided to just shut the fuck up. I’m way too old for this kind of nonsense. I gave everything I had left, again.

Note 1258
I overheard a conversation at a show in south Texas almost a year ago, a musician stating how many times he had cheated on his girlfriend over four years. He said twenty-seven times. Three times while she was pregnant. He acted like it was some kind of trophy staple to playing music. Fucking ridiculous behavior. Considering how many times I’ve had to regurgitate people’s bullshit over and over, it really drastically alters my view on things. Even when you are one hundred and eighty percent to the point where you may as well skywrite devotion to someone, sometimes it still doesn’t matter. I will never understand that. And I fucking hate my hometown and all the garbage people who behave like that there, or anywhere.

Note 1259
Not much I can do about the residual webs anymore. Clear them out, pull them down. They still stick right to you. You roll over at 3am and reach for the empty spot where you once backed up against, just so that you could finally breathe. It is an empty that is so loud it’s like a piano on your face.

Note 1261
And it’s so easy now days. Social media allows you to rewrite your narrative to make it out to anything you could ever want it to be. In fact you can make faces just disappear with the click of a ‘delete post’ button. It’s like it never happened. You were really never ever there. Crowds just pass on by your feed like “huh oh, wow carry on”. No one sees the stitches underneath it all. It’s all too easy to wipe away. Must be amazing to pull that off, because oh how it makes one feel like total shit and less than zero all at the same time. Way to go, you deserve an ‘atta girl/boy’ ribbon for that fucking Houdini trick.

Note 1265
Momentum screams and that irony just bakes all around you. Anger is a such a plentiful tool isn’t it? How I know it so fucking well. It is a reeking hailstorm at times, and you just have to hold everything you have left over your head and just hope that when you lift your shoulders back up – everything that remains, the smoldering and battering of eyes and lies, YOU HOPE WITH GRITTING TEETH that it might not weigh as much as it did the day before.

Note 1255
Caring what people think is way over rated. I tell you with 46 years of experience in shoes and legs that I can’t even feel. The less you give a fuck about what people think, and the more about lending the focus of your heart and finding its place – that’s where you need to be. It’s raw and pure and you carry it like stones on your chest.

Find it. Throw it. Yell it across empty stares until it’s like dragging a screen door across someones face. Do it enough times, and  maybe a reason will tap you on the back and say “hey I get it, it’s ok”.

It’s ok. And unlikely. Trust me, I get it.