It is a hard thing to struggle with addiction. I have most of my life. Right now I see so clearly and I hate it. It makes me want to rip my eyeballs out and flush them down the toilet. I hear all toilets flush to China… so maybe I would get to see that country!
I am a walking tornado clothed in a hoody and pajama pants. Most of the time I look like I just rolled out of bed. My blog, if you actually view it as a whole, shows a clear cycle of my moods and emotions. It shows my anxiety issues and also my bouts with addiction. Before you get an idea of a meth head, manic depressive Korean in your brain kill it. I am not that type of guy. You can be an addict and not be on Breaking Bad.
Anxiety is a physical weight that many deal with. Where that anxiety rests depends a lot on a person’s body, mine sits on my neck and weighs down my soul. I hate it. I know it. It will never go away.
As I struggle with writing what I don’t want to write in this book I have found many old doorways opening. These doorways lead to a hall of depression that I thought I had left a long time ago. Depression is not a single road… there are many and they all have their own bumps. Relating to another person’s struggles is fine, but we should be careful to not try and project our definitions on others. I never attempt to do that. I am my own devil, no one needs me adding to their pot.
And so I sit here for a couple hours while my daughter are at school and I close my eyes. I allow the waves of pressure, anxiety, frustration, ….want, and need to roll through my body. It hurts, it sucks, and at the same time the struggle amuses the shit out of me. How weak must my body be to react in such a way? I would say pretty weak, but I already knew that. I am a bad person.
Writing is my life, but unfortunately I must die a little doing other things each day as well…
am I an afterthought to an action. An expression to a regret or a regret to an expression. Would it matter if you adorned me with a name, but never owned me. Never claimed me in the night like every night that I waited and still wait. One eye to the door expecting it to open and the other to life and knowing you will never come. Silent steps will always be silent. Steps of my dreams where they and you will always remain.
Sometimes I hate you OM. This fake persona that I have created that takes up my time. You are my creation, I get that, but you also were something of an afterthought.
An afterthought, ouch, I have never been called that before.
Is it odd that I can now safely call myself that? We are no longer talking between just you and I are we? Wasn’t it better when we screamed in the dark? Who opened the door… it was you OM.
But we are the same, are we not?
We are the same but you speak what should not be spoken. You say what should be left unsaid. And yet that was what we discussed was it not?
It was, we agreed in blood. Blood not spilled, since we share the same heart.
I am beginning to wonder if you have a heart. You seem to dislike the world, is that true? Or are you being unfairly judged?
We are all being judged, it just isn’t always spoken. I revel in judgment.
I don’t, I thought we were supposed to revel in anonymity that was provided through our creation? When did we change our plans?
We have always had this plan. You created me… and now I create you.
Broken man, you break so well. Broken, breaking, falling down. Breaking man, see your crown. Broken and now two halves for sale. Fallen man, how far you fell. Slipping from so high to hell. Broken man, can you break some more? How much more do you think you can endure.
I will sing a song of mockingbirds and yell against the wind. No time like now, it must be now, I might as well begin. The timeless tale has yet to be told, my pen still wet with ink. And so I sit and ponder still, for a thought I think, I think. Mystery in past decisions, and future steps tonight. Could I write the past so clear, my hand thinks it might. I close my eyes to doubt, she sits upon my bed. Always with sweet words that go so well with my meds. Tanqueray and misguided kisses, I dream about what she says. Can I write, shall I write, she spurs me ahead. I will write, please help me write, I begin to beg. Writing at least, finally written, it has finally been said.
We box lives daily and fit people into perfect squares. If they don’t fit, we make them fit by forcing their proportions to our desire. Boxing lives we kill life without a thought. Carelessly we destroy dreams and hopes because to allow another to overshadow us is a depressing thought. We find depression waiting under their shade. Motivated by constraint, we often constrain those we love. For who wants to wallow in despair alone? Sadness is only found in failure when you walk the path by yourself… a hand in the night feels so right.
Box us together.
Changes come like the transitioning leaves above. Beautiful as they slowly die from right to left or left to right. Their death personified by the changing of their color. A beauty, a beauty we gasp at. Appreciation found in a canopy of little dying souls above. The heavens rain tears down on them.
This will be the new name of my blog going forward. I had my little fun. I appreciate everyone that is handling this transition so well. You are all winners. All happy people here. :)
New Peaceful Tagline in place.
I felt no need to keep up two posts from yesterday, but at least some people know the why. And I guess that matters? Maybe a little?
Will I waste away writing nothing or finally write something to be proud of. That she will be proud of.
A single snowflake lays in a field. Alone he waits for death and somehow contemplates the irony of it all. Who the hell ever heard of a single snow flake falling?
He thanks his maker still that he fell facing up. It would have been a shame to slowly melt away his life facing down towards the ground, possibly watching his life passing forth life to another. Lucky blade of grass. Who the hell made you so genetically superior that you reap the benefit of my death?
But instead of wasting his single tear on despair, he swallows emotion for the moment the way a frozen heart only can. He looks to the sky to where he assumes his maker is. For had he not fallen from the sky? Whichever brightly shining bulb of light had conjured him, even for what is more and more feeling like only mere minutes, he still gives thanks. And as he feels his heart begin to evaporate he starts to find peace in his melting life.
In Afghanistan, a young soldier lies on the ground alone. His blood is seeping through his fingers as he tries to hold his life in for just a bit longer. His last thoughts are of his family, the love for his mother, and his loyalty to a country that has hated him since he got here. He gasps for air. And as death approaches he opens his mouth in defiance, but all that comes out is a silent never-ending scream.
A young prostitute in Thailand weeps in her room. It is nothing more than a shack. Her first customer has just left, her first time ever, and all she can do is hold herself. The feel of her own skin repulses her. The tears have all been shed; there don’t seem to be any left. All she can think of is the shame she has brought on herself and on her family. Her wails turn into a silent scream, a scream that only ends when the next customer arrives.
A young man runs with his friends in India. They are trying to escape the coming sirens that seem to have surrounded them. He had not wanted to come, but his brother had forced him. Now a young woman is dead and all he can think of is the horror he has just witnessed his friends and brother commit. “It cannot be real,” is what he keeps telling himself as he runs till his lungs feel like they will burst. As he rounds the corner a club hits him on the back of the head and he falls with a silent scream, a fall that will last the rest of his life.
In Chicago a young mother waits by the phone. Her son has been out all night and there have been news reports of violence in the surrounding neighborhoods. She is not overly worried, she has a good kid and he does not affiliate with any of those bad groups. The phone rings and startles her, taking a couple years off her life. The voice on the other end is saying something… she makes out two words. Her son’s name and the word “dead.” The phone drops from her hand as she begins to scream… a silent scream that only the angels can hear.
A man walks out onto his porch. He stares into the night and closes his eyes. There are times when you can hear them, the silent screams, they fill the night and slay sleep.
You stand proud and sure of your own worth. The knowledge and intellect that you have you use for your own understanding. You seek answers even when answers are given. Always curious, nothing is safe from your scrutiny. You argue and laugh seemingly without mercy. You list your reasons and you hold to your convictions. You do not need man, woman, or child telling you what to believe. Dusty books and literature hold no meaning. There is no truth but the one that you uncover. You have heard man’s thoughts, let them hear yours. You are the God Killer.
I see my train of thought. A giant yellow train worthy to be seen. The front of the train, I don’t know what it is called, but the fucker sure is big. I imagine my train is most likely one of the best trains ever built. It is yellow because I am tired of the blacks and whites.
I believe it is a coal train. Yes, yes indeed it is. I see a yellow man shoveling that coal, damn look at him shovel. Must be why we are going so fast, hell of a ride. Oop, look there goes another white train… slowly losing us in our dust. And a black one, red one I start to lose count. It doesn’t matter because my train is obviously winning. What a great fucking train.